


Stuck In The Middle (With You)

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Angst with a Happy Ending, Antihero Quentin Beck, Bottom Peter Parker, But with a major twist, College Student Peter Parker, Eventual Fluff, Heat to three-fifty and cook for six hours, Hitman AU, M/M, Manipulative Quentin Beck, Michelle Jones Is a Good Bro, Organized Crime, Peter Parker is a Mess, Protective Tony Stark, Quentin Beck is a hitman, Smut, Stark Enterprises - Freeform, Things Don't Go The Way As Planned, Top Quentin Beck, Until he falls in love too, Villain turned Hero Trope, coffee shop AU, or - Freeform, slowburn, very slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-09-01 00:30:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20249173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Peter Parker's in the midst of getting his life together - He's got an internship at Stark Enterprises, a decent scholarship at Empire State University, and he's earning a positive income where half of his clothes smell like coffee all of the time. To top it all off, he has no idea he's just fallen in love with one of the most dangerous men he's ever met.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, guys. (-: So, I've written Marvel fics before, but Quentin and Peter caught my eye pretty swiftly after seeing Far From Home. I haven't written in a while, but it feels nice to finally start getting back on my feet again. This idea was kind of arbitrary, but I hope you guys enjoy it. Comments or criticism is appreciated.
> 
> Just to clarify, Peter is NOT underage in this fic and there is no dubcon whatsoever. 
> 
> All mistakes and typos are my own.

“How long are you going to keep doing this for?”

Quentin exhaled, bringing the wet cloth over the surface of his leather boots. He was trying to clean them, the best that he was able to. His hands were stained red — blotches to his complexion, caked within the curves of his fingernails, crimson and deep. 

There was blood on his boots.

“I’m doing this for you.” Beck clipped in response to the voice, who in return murmured something under their breath, a heavy hint of disapproval at the tip of their tongue. He wouldn’t be so bothered with cleaning his shoes if they weren’t his only pair at the moment.

There was always blood on his boots.

“You know I can’t just call it quits.” Quentin reminded them gently. “It’s good money coming in. I know you don’t approve, but...” He exhaled, softly to himself, and he stood from where he had been sitting upon the stool to kneel in front of their chair, taking dainty fingers and smaller hands into the warmth of his palm. “I need to take care of you. I care about you too much to lose you.”

Upon closer inspection, they — or she — exhaled, and placed both of her hands over Quentin’s. They were wrinkled with age, fragile but certain. “And what about the day my baby doesn’t come home to me?” She said, caring little for the blood. She was more concerned for her son.

He kissed the shape of her knuckles. “I’ll always come back to you.” He said, before standing, and returning to his previous spot within the decrepit stool.

She didn’t say anything for a while, and then Quentin spoke up once more.

“Listen... I have another job coming up. A big one. And the team is expecting a lot out of me. It’ll be worth it in the end—“

“And how many lives have to be taken before you realize what you’ve done?” She snapped back.

“No one’s getting hurt.” He replied swiftly, which was a slight lie. Or a big lie. Either way, his mother could read right through the bullshit that came flying out of his mouth. “It’s for a good cause.”

“A good cause? Are you right in the head? I know you don’t say much about what goes on when you step out’a this apartment, but I’m not stupid—”

“I swear.” He cut in gently, and he fixated his gaze upon where she sat in the plush velvet armchair. She was stern for an old woman. “We’re taking down... Practically a monopoly. I... I can’t tell you too much. But it’s good. It _will_ be good.”

“I don’t wanna hear anything more about it.” She waved him off, huffing softly.

He nodded quietly, glancing back down to his shoes.

Silence took hold while the television’s lines danced brightly along the screen, illuminating the dark and deep void of their small living room.

* * *

“No— No, no way. Do you know how serious this is? I mean, do you know how... How _disappointed_ I am in you?”

Peter exhaled, a soft yet playful scoff pushing past his lips as he filled the paper cup to the near-top with milk, flicking on the switch and frothing the beverage. “MJ— Is it that big of a deal?”

She leaned against the counter, popping another espresso bean between her lips, chewing and swallowing before she spoke up once more. “I mean, yeah. It is.” She shook her head in disbelief, though there was a sliver of tease in her tone. “How have you never tasted coffee before? You work at a _cafe_.”

The nineteen year-old finished off the latte with coffee and capped the beverage, sliding it onto the counter where people picked up their drinks. It was just he and Michelle today. Staff was always a tad low on this place, and the case was just so recently, but they were trying their best to stock up on staff. To be truthful, the café in general wasn’t overly welcoming. All of the chairs were a darker shade of wood, the tables to match, though there were very few plants to liven up the place. The case was the same with the wall-art. Michelle considered throwing up some art on the walls – She was certain the owner wouldn’t notice. A privately owned coffee shop wasn’t exactly a match for Dunkin’ Donuts, either (sorry – Dunkin’, they’re calling it now – Peter didn’t really care for the difference...), nor was it for Starbucks. Not that Peter particularly cared for coffee as well. Hence, the conversation he and MJ were having right now.

“Okay... Well, maybe I just don’t like it.” Peter replied.

“You can’t like something that you never tried.” Michelle said, though another thought crossed her mind. “Hey— You still cool for later?”

“Uh— Yeah. May actually offered to make dinner for you. And of course, you’re still... I mean, you can still stay over.”

She nodded, and the corner of her lips twitched into a smile. “Cool. Glad you finally have a chance to hang out. I know your schedule gets a little crazy, or whatever.” And it was true. Peter had this job, an internship at Stark Industries and plenty of classwork to worry about. Not to mention, he was still trying to scrounge up enough cash to get out of May’s hair and find his own apartment. “Maybe Ned can come over. Didn’t he want to see that new movie coming out?”

“You mean Hellboy?”

“Yeah, whatever.” She shrugged.

There was a _ding_ from the door swinging open, but Peter was much too focused on the conversation at hand for the moment. “What? It’s— It’s not _whatever_, it’s Hellboy! AKA, a classic.”

Michelle simply rolled another shrug off her shoulders. “I don’t even remember the first one.”

“Excuse me?”

Peter swung around when he realized another customer had stepped inside. He had been a tad surprised by the voice, actually, because this place was a bit of a dud and on the verge of closing down, and—

Oh. Wow.

He was cute… No, hot.

… Or both.

“Uh— Y— Mhm?” Peter swallowed, stumbling over his words, falling short of them completely as his eyes settled upon the man in front of him. He was... Well, definitely a sight. The strands of his hair were a dark brown slicked back upon his head, fitting with the unshaved ( yet neat ) scruff upon his features. Tying together his characteristics was a warm and welcome pair of crystalline eyes — Irises perhaps borderline grey, but nonetheless, absolutely stunning. He was dressed mostly in all black, with the exception of a navy sweater beneath a black coat thrown over the outfit. Peter was still trying to figure out his words, because he was kind of just standing there and gaping at the man as if he were from another planet. He was trying to put his words together to either ask, ‘What can I get for you?’ and, ‘May I help you?’ but by the time he finished up, it pretty much blurted out into one solid—

“May I get you?”

Michelle hid a smirk, turning around from where she had been leaning against the marble counter to wipe down the machines.

“Uh— I mean— May I help you?”

The man chuckled, deep and silky-smooth, and his lips pressed into a smile. Very cheerful for a New York Resident. A little too cheerful, but Peter was never one not to bask in the sunshine, especially when they came in the physical forms of human beings.

Peter swallowed thickly, and his mouth suddenly felt dry. It certainly wasn’t the cold weather to blame, despite being mid-autumn.

“Actually, yes— I’m new to the city. I was hoping you could tell me what’s best to drink on the menu here.” He explained.

“Well—“ Peter glanced back at the chalkboard menu behind him, as if he hadn’t memorized it before. There were too many hours of boredom that he spent staring at the crafted chalk lines. “Depends, uh— I mean, you know...”

_Why can’t I function around attractive people?_

“It depends what you like.” He continued, desperately wishing to hide the color within his face. “You know, how sweet you like your coffee... Or how bitter...”

Michelle was going to give him so much shit later.

The stranger tapped his fingers upon the counter as he gazed over the items above, and Peter stole a glance at the man’s hands. He could have toppled over if he hadn’t torn his eyes away any sooner, because he was ninety percent sure those hands were crafted by the gods.

A little dramatic, but... he had nice hands. And they were big.

_You know what they say about big hands... No, wait, that’s feet..._

Peter shook the thought.

“Something balanced, maybe? Not too sweet but not bitter, either.” He explained, redirecting his stare to Peter, and there came that smile again. The movement of it was somehow simultaneously comforting and grateful.

“I think the latte is a good choice, then.” Peter said with an honest nod, having to look away to regain himself silently. “The milk kind of... Like you said, it balances it.” He said.

His smile fell into a gentle smirk. “I’m sure yours tastes the best, if you’re recommending it.”

Was this real, or was Peter having another wet dream?

“A latte sounds perfect.” He finished off, fishing his hand into his pocket to bring out a wallet, leather and black, small and slim.

Peter nodded again, chewing on the inside of his cheek to prevent him from saying anything ridiculous. He paused for a moment, turning on his heel and picking up the coffee cup before Michelle could start to make his drink. “Uh— Can I have a name?”

See, that’s the thing — They didn’t really ask their customers for their names on their coffee cups, but...

Peter was just itching to know.

He looked up from pulling a five out of his wallet. “Quentin.” He replied, and despite Peter just needing the first name, his expression of warmth returned, and he outstretched his hand to shake. “Quentin Beck.”

More of an introduction than a simple name. Peter felt his cheeks flush with color.

“Uh— Parker.” He said, reaching out and greeting him with a hand shake. His palms were large against his, vivid with a welcome sensation, and Peter pulled his hand away almost too swiftly. He was afraid he wouldn’t have been able to let go if he held on any longer. “Peter.”

“Parker Peter?” Quentin asked, a hint of playfulness ebbing at his voice.

“No, no— Peter. Peter Parker, it’s—“

“Don’t worry, I’m just teasing.” He chuckled once more.

Peter relaxed a little, and now offered a timid smile of his own. “Right.” He nodded, uncapping the sharpie with his mouth and scribbling Quentin’s name on the cup. “Tha’ wi’ be...” He spoke, cap still in mouth before he removed it. “Three dollars and twenty eight cents.”

“See, I bet that same order would be about six dollars anywhere else in the city.” Beck replied, sliding the five over the counter. Peter took the bill, placing it into the cash register and gathering his change.

“I guess we’re just better than them, then.” Peter said, his own voice growing a tad childlike, though he cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m sure they’re stuff is good, maybe better, but...” He handed over a dollar bill and his coins.

“Oh, they are good. But maybe you’ll change my mind about that.” Quentin replied casually.

Okay— He had to be in his early to mid thirties. No way was this guy a day over forty. Which... It was fine, right? He was just complimenting him. Peter was almost drinking age, anyway… Sort of…

Why was he even thinking about this? This man was a stranger. A customer he’d probably serve for the first and only time, and then never see him again. The thought saddened him slightly, he had to admit, but it was easier to deal with than seeing him frequently and then not at all.

Nervous laughter slipped past Peter’s lips. “Maybe it will.” He said in return. “I’ll get right on your drink. You can, uhm—“ He gestured along the stand, “wait down by the other counter.” He offered.

He nodded, before finally removing his gaze and heading down to where Peter instructed him to.

MJ, whose back had still been turned, cast her eyes over at Peter in a knowing way.

“What?” He mumbled with a shrug, getting right on that latte.

She laughed a little to herself, though it was more of a giggle if anything.

“Jeez, MJ, _what?_” He asked quietly.

“Flirting with the customers now, are we?”

Peter stared at her blankly. “He wasn’t—I wasn’t—Flirting? What are you talking about?” He asked quietly, shaking his head swiftly. “He was just… a really nice guy.”

“That you were flirting with.” She pointed out with a raised brow.

“I was _not_ flirting with him.” He murmured, glancing down the counter and over towards where Quentin was waiting. As if the man had instantly felt eyes on him, he looked up from his phone and found Peter’s eyes, sending him a light smile.

Peter turned away, throat feeling tight and face feeling hot.

“Well, he was definitely flirting with you.” She said. “You know we don’t ask for names in this shop.”

“Well— I forgot, okay? I was just trying to be polite…” He murmured.

“Mhm.” Michelle said, though she knew otherwise. “Go on, give him the latte. I bet he’ll keep the cup on his night dresser for weeks.”

“MJ…” Peter groaned inwardly at her comment, capping the beverage and huffing. Picking it up, he slipped past Michelle and head down the counter, offering Quentin a small smile as he slid his beverage to him. “There you are. One latte.” He said. “I hope it doesn’t disappoint.”

“Thank you.” Quentin said gratefully, taking the cup of coffee from Peter. “I think I’m going to need it to fight the weather outside.” He said truthfully.

“Yeah. It’s cold out today.” Peter nodded. “That’s New York Weather for you.”

“And it’s not even Winter yet.” Quentin pointed out in response. “Well—Anyway, thank you, Peter. I look forward to seeing you again.”

“Uh—You, too!” Peter called after him as he already started out the store, who gave Peter one last wave before he stepped out.

Maybe Quentin would come again. One could only hope.

* * *

“Hey—Kid, you busy?” Tony’s voice rang from the other side of the line.

It had been about a week since he had met Quentin, and Peter had to admit, he was disappointed he hadn’t seen him again yet. Michelle constantly teased Peter about how _Today Would Be The Day_, and Peter would just wave her off with a smile and a playfully irritated _shut it_. He had, however, been swamped with homework, and so it served as a decent distraction.

Peter had his cellphone tucked between his ear and his shoulder as he struggled to finish up typing an essay on his computer. “Busy?” He asked rhetorically, fingers moving swiftly, though he paused for a moment to stand and dig around for a piece of paper that he needed, something to complete the research paper he was working on. He could have sworn he left it in his bag… “Uh—No, not busy. Why?”

Peter couldn’t say so himself, but he considered himself relatively close to Tony. Peter had been contacted by Stark Industries around his freshman year of high school when he had entered a model robot in for the science faire – except, it wasn’t exactly _model_, because it was an actual robot. Maybe not as fully functional as Stark’s Dum-E, but it worked, and it captured Tony’s attention right away.

Also, Peter’s hugged Tony twice (the first time on accident), so he considered that a win.

“Great. I need you to stop by the lab.”

“…Right now? Mr. Stark, it’s nine-thirty at night—”

“Thought you said you weren’t busy?”

“Uh… I mean, I’m not, but…”

“Great. Happy’s outside. He’ll bring you over.”

“Oh… Okay—”

Before Peter could say anything else, the phone call ended, and he exhaled. He gave up on the paper for now, returning to his laptop and saving the document. He could work on it later.

He gave May a quick explanation and a kiss goodbye, barely shimmying on his shoes as he grabbed his backpack and head outside his apartment building. As told, Happy’s car was waiting there, ready to pick Peter up.

“Hey, Happy.” Peter greeted as he got into the backseat, friendly as ever. He liked Happy, even if he was grumpy all of the time.

Happy just grumbled, though he glanced back at Peter with a nod. “How are you, kiddo?”

He nodded. “Good.”

“How’s your aunt?”

Peter sank down in the car seat a bit, bringing his seatbelt over his body and buckling up. “Uh—May’s fine.”

“Still make that great sauce?” He asked, starting to bring the car down the road.

He took a moment to process Happy’s question. He’s had May’s sauce?

Inwardly, Peter cringed. He didn’t even like to think about the phrasing of that sentence. “Yep. Still makes that sauce.” He said, glancing down to his hands with slight discomfort. It was the one time Peter hoped Happy would stop talking.

Thankfully, the rest of the drive was silent, and he stepped out of the car with Happy once they parked in front of Stark Tower.

“Hey, Happy?”

Happy glanced to Peter as they head inside. “Yeah, kid?”

“How do you know about May’s sauce?”

* * *

“Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing.” Tony swung around in his chair, leaning back and folding his hands over his chest. “Otherwise known as… Well, B.A.R.F., I guess. Officially named. For now.”

Peter’s lips tugged into a light smile as he approached the worktable Tony was situated at, not even paying attention to the name. Tony’s been talking about working on this for a while. “You finished it?”

Tony gave a nonchalant shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“So… You did?”

Standing up, Mr. Stark brought his glasses onto his face and gestured for Peter to follow. Peter did just so, where Tony brought him through a door right next to his lab, guiding the teenager inside. “Friday, light’s on.”

The room lit up, and at first, it was blank. More building blocks than an actual display, but it did look finished, and Peter was impressed.

“Do you know what this is, Peter?” He said, gesturing to the empty room.

Peter glanced up to him. “Well… You said it was a holographic system, right?”

Tony nodded. He clapped a hand upon Peter’s shoulder gently, guiding him further inside. “It’s… Well, it’s a little bit more than that.” He said, bringing his other hand up to his glasses. In an instant, the room shifted and changed entirely. Standing at the doorway of a modest kitchen was a younger Tony Stark – Perhaps Peter’s age, give or take a year. “The system connects with your hippocampus, up here.” Tony said, gently poking Peter’s head, though he was sure Peter knew where it was. “And through your brain, it transmits… memories, in this case traumatic ones.”

Peter tilted his head. “Traumatic ones?”

Tony read through his confusion, though he nodded. “Revisiting these memories could assist someone in overcoming these experiences. Finding the source that makes them weak, and growing from it.”

He nodded in understanding, gazing at the room around him. It all seemed so very real, to a degree where it was frightening. “You did this all by yourself?”

“Partially.” Tony said, turning to him Peter. The scene around them dissipated just as Howard Stark stepped into the room, dematerializing into the plain black room that it had been when the two of them walked inside. “All those projects I’ve been assigning to you… They’ve helped out this project. A lot.”

Peter smiled a little, feeling somewhat accomplished. “Really?”

“Course.” He said, finally removing his hand from Peter’s back. “But—Yes, otherwise, it was all me.”

Parker laughed a little, stepping out of the room with Tony. “Mr. Stark, it’s amazing.”

“It is.” Tony said with a certain expression. “So amazing that I’m going to present it at the next Stark Expo.”

“You are?”

“Mhm. And I want you to be there for it.”

Peter’s eyes lit up in an instant. Mr. Stark wanted Peter to be at the Stark Expo, there, with him, to present B.A.R.F.? Maybe it was ridiculous, but Peter was pretty sure he’s never been so excited for something in his life.

“What do you say, kid? Wanna show the people of New York some of that talent of yours?”

He breathed in, and then nodded all too quickly. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Mr. Stark.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter finds out a little bit more about Quentin.

“Excuse me– Sorry, just passing by—”

Peter slipped by the pedestrians of New York City, doing his best to not bump into anyone or cause anyone to drop anything. He was horribly late to work, and although it wasn’t often that his boss came in, it was possible. And even better – It was Monday morning. Meaning plenty of people were going to flood in for their coffee to wake themselves up for a long work week. The people of New York needed their coffee and were certainly grumpy when it wasn’t received.

He hoped that everyone else had shown up for their shift. After all, along with he and MJ, Flash worked the job with them.

Peter felt a bit exhausted at the simple thought of having to work with Flash this morning. Flash had three shifts a week, and Peter had only found that out _after_ he applied for the job. Lucky him. He knew Flash Thompson from Midtown High, and let’s just say he wish he didn’t. MJ applied shortly after, only because she needed something to do outside of home and didn’t want Peter to suffer by himself.

On the plus side, it was pouring. It was a great morning, wasn’t it?

Peter managed to step inside of the coffee shop as the rain grew heavier, a bit grateful, but nonetheless, he had forgotten his umbrella this morning. So, his hair was soaked, along with his graphic t-shirt (another physics pun) and his black jeans. He grumbled, bringing fingers through the strands, welcoming the warmth of the coffee shop as he grabbed an apron and head behind the counter. The place was certainly packed. The line was much longer than usual, and people were actually sitting down to enjoy some of their coffees. Most of them, however, were rushing out to get to work. Peter figured they chose this place because it was closest to their job.

“Penis! You’re late.” Flash said, from where he seemed to be making a macchiato.

_Obviously_, Peter thought to himself, but instead murmured a, “Sorry,” and got ready for work. He went to take over the cash register, when Flash suddenly stepped in front of him.

“No, way. You’re taking care of drinks now.” Flash said. “You’re almost an hour late.”

He was twenty minutes late, but Flash certainly liked to exaggerate. “I’m supposed to take the register this morning.”

“Well, you’re doing the drinks. Or do you want me to tell our boss how late you are?”

Peter sighed, and briefly glanced up at the awaiting customers, a tad embarrassed. They seemed annoyed that the line wasn’t moving faster, and about two seconds short from cursing Peter out. “Okay.” He said, without much fight, heading instead to the machines to work the bar.

The morning was a drag. Flash kept ‘accidentally’ stepping on his shoes whenever he went to hand him the next order, or nudged his side if he decided to bring the drinks down the counter when the line died down. Peter was so occupied, accidentally spilling some Americano on his grey shirt, working on keeping both himself and the station clean. The soles of his feet already hurt for standing a little too long, and before he realized it, he was two hours into his shift. MJ called in sick for the day.

He was in the midst of wiping down some coffee from the counter when a familiar voice rang through his ears.

“One latte, please.”

Peter whipped his head around, and instantly felt the oxygen leave his chest. It was Quentin – After about two weeks of not seeing him, he was finally back, if not more vibrant than Peter remembered him. He wore yet another sweater, though it was a dark green that fit well with his complexion. Black pants again, slightly baggy but mostly fitting, and the same coat. He caught Peter’s eye from behind the counter, and gave him a small smile and a wave.

He was so taken by Quentin’s appearance that he hadn’t even noticed Flash trying to hand him the cup. “Hey— Earth to Penis.” He said, and this time he tossed the cup to Peter, who just barely caught it. “Come on, step it up. You work at Stark Industries, don’t you? Shouldn’t you be bright enough to get it through your brain? One latte for this gentleman.”

Quentin, for a moment, appeared confused. “I’m sorry—What did you call him?”

Flash blinked as he peered around his shoulder and back to his customer. No one had ever really approached him about his name-calling or bullying towards Peter, and to be quite truthful, it was a bit of a shock. “Uh— I…”

“His name is Peter.” Quentin reminded Flash sternly, his welcoming appearance now vacant from his expression. “Surely you can’t mess up a name like that.”

“No, I—”

“Good. Your manager wouldn’t want you to know that you’re harassing your fellow employees, would they?”

“Uh—No, sir, ‘course not.” He cleared his throat, swiftly handing over Quentin’s coins. “Six seventy-two is your change…”

Quentin took the change from Flash, glancing to Peter in a gentle expression before he head down the counter.

Peter got right onto that latte – It was probably the fastest beverage he had ever made. He cast a gaze towards Flash, who now seemed to have minimal interest in what Peter was doing, and went down the counter to where Quentin was waiting.

“I’m… guessing the first latte was good, then.” Peter said with a tiny quirk of his lips.

Quentin smiled warmly at Peter as he approached, as if no malice had been within his expression previously. “It was the best latte I’ve ever had.” He admitted. “Hey—Listen, I’m sorry that your co-worker is speaking to you like that.”

“Ah, it’s… It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” He said immediately in response. “You deserve to be respected, Peter, or for him to be at least polite. Not how he’s treating you.”

Peter paused for a moment, his lips forming into a wider, softer grin. The only person who had really bit back at Flash’s comments was MJ – And even then, he didn’t take the hint to stop. He was a bit taken aback that Quentin would even comment on it, but deep down in his chest was a flower of fondness that continued to blossom each and every moment he spoke to Beck. He swallowed, and nodded a little. “Thank you, Quentin.” He said gently, pausing for a moment before speaking again. Flash certainly wouldn’t be in a rush for him to get back to work now. “… I, uhm… Haven’t seen you in a while.” He said. “I mean—Not that it’s a bad thing. Or good— Just… That… It’s been a while.”

Quentin’s lips pressed into a grin of his own. “Did you miss me?”

Peter inhaled a little, a scarlet red traveling from the rounds of his cheeks to the tips of his ears gradually. “Uh—”

He laughed wholeheartedly. “I’m just kidding, Peter.” He said. “I have been a bit busy, but… It’s no worry. I’m glad I was able to make it back here today.” He stated, and for a moment, Peter could have sworn Quentin came back for him.

But that was silly, right? Quentin had already said it was the best latte he’s ever had. He came back for the coffee… Which was made by Peter. So, technically, he did come back for him.

Wishful thinking.

“Me, too.” Peter commented in a friendly manner.

“… I don’t mean to be nosy, Pete, and forgive me for asking—But your co-worker said you work at Stark Industries?”

Growing shy, Peter nodded and turned his eyes away. “I, uh—I’m an intern.” He explained.

“Hey, nothing to be ashamed of, Peter. You shouldn’t be sorry for being the brightest kid in the room.”

Peter looked back up at him, his heart turning into a puddle right then and there. “Oh, I don’t know…”

“What do you work on there?” Quentin asked curiously.

“Uhm… Robotics.” He nodded, being as vague as he could. Tony was pretty keen on keeping B.A.R.F. quiet, at least until the Expo. He really wanted to wow some New York citizens.

“I’m sure you’re being modest.” Quentin chuckled. “You know… I’m a bit of a science whiz myself.” He said.

Peter’s smiled returned. “Seriously?”

He chuckled. “Seriously.” He nodded. “Maybe one time we should get together. You can tell me about what you do, and I can show you some of the stuff I’ve worked on.”

Peter felt his skin start to grow hot. Did Quentin want to hang out of him? Like, outside of buying a latte? “You’d—You’d want to hang out with me?”

He felt childish clarifying, or even asking. He had to admit, however, he was surprised at the invitation.

“It would be an honor.” Quentin smirked a tad.

Peter laughed, a tad nervous, though he felt ridiculous doing so. “Okay. Yeah, great.” He nodded. “Do you have somewhere I can contact you?”

“Would it be inappropriate that I ask for your number?”

“What?” Peter shook his head. “No, no… Not at all.” Oh, my God— Oh, my God, _someone just asked for my number._ “I’ll, uh…” He whipped around, grabbing the first thing in sight—a napkin—and he scribbled his phone number down onto it with the pen from his apron, before sliding it over to his newfound friend. “There, you go. I should be able to reply pretty often.”

_God, why did I just say that?_

“Awesome. I’ll text you. And I promise this time, it won’t take me two weeks to come back here.” Quentin replied, picking up his latte with a smile. “I’ll see you soon?”

There were definitely butterflies in Peter’s chest. A whole lot of them, fluttering around like nobody’s business. “Yeah. Yes, absolutely.”

Quentin nodded, thanking him for the latte before he stepped out and into the rain. He had left his umbrella by the door idly when he stepped in, and it was left in that same exact spot when he exited the café.

Whether that was purposeful or not, Peter would never know.

* * *

Peter had noticed the umbrella sitting by the door of the coffee shop when his shift was over, and although he knew he should have thrown it into lost and found, he made out the initials scribbled down onto the handle of the umbrella.

_ **Q. Beck** _

So, Peter took it home.

Of course, he’d give it back. After all, Quentin was supposed to be contacting him soon, _and_ even wanted to see him again out of work. So, yes, he’d give it back.

It was a bit of a lucky strike, though, because he had forgotten his umbrella earlier that morning, and used it to venture through the pouring rain to get to his college class that night. Maybe he should have felt a little guilty for doing so, because Quentin most likely walked through the rain all day, but… The umbrella was huge.

Again, he’d give it back.

The umbrella ended up sitting in his room for a couple of days. It had been a little bit of time since he’d seen Quentin, but of course, not two weeks’ worth of time. He had to remain patient. As Quentin said… He was a busy man.

“Hey, Peter? Do you know where the scissors went?” May’s voice called from the kitchen.

Peter was, as usual, in his own bedroom. He was working on another project Stark had assigned to him, something miniscule but ‘significant’. Tony was pretty vague when it came to certain explanations, but based off the instructions, it had something to do with further research of holographic studies. “Uh—I think they’re in the drawer by the sink!” He shouted back mindlessly, setting his pen down for a moment to bring a hand through his hair.

“They’re not in here!” Silence, and then, “Oh, nope, wait, got ‘em.”

His fingertips dragged from his hair down to his eyes, scrubbing at them sleepily. Classes all day tomorrow, he reminded himself. He had to make sure he had all the work in check before tomorrow’s classes actually came.

His phone buzzed next to his bed, and as he had always been doing this week, he checked it as soon as he heard the vibration. He pushed himself back in his rolling office chair towards his night table, scooping it up in hopes of it being Quentin. He deflated slightly, however, when he saw that it was just Ned checking up on him and seeing if he was available this weekend.

Before he was able to set his phone down, however, another text came in. An unknown number appeared at the top of the screen, their message reading:

**347-837-******  
_Been a couple of days, and I still miss that latte._

Peter’s lips twitched to smile. It was Quentin. Unable to help himself, he began typing out a response. He stopped himself, however, after a second or so. Would it be weird that he was texting back so swiftly after days of no contact?

He decided to wait eight minutes exactly before sending in what he had typed out.

**peter**  
_Too bad I can’t send you any. Would virtual ones work?_

Bringing his top row of teeth down onto his bottom lip, he created a contact for Beck and sent yet another text message. 

**peter**  
_good to talk to you again, though (: Hope these last few days have been good to you_

As soon as he pressed ‘send’, he regretted it. He immediately began to think that his message was much too pushy or invading, or that they should have kept it to the casual talk for a little while longer.

Puffing his cheeks and exhaling, he tossed his phone onto his bed and scooted back to his desk, hoping to distract himself with his work. Surprisingly, however, just moments later, his phone vibrated. Again.

This time, Peter stood up from his chair and picked up his phone from his comforter, checking his notifications screen.

** quentin **  
_Virtual ones would suffice for now…_

**quentin**  
_but thank you for asking, Peter. I’m doing just fine. I hope the same’s for you. I want to apologize for taking so many days to reply to you_

Peter felt the apples of his cheeks filter with warmth, and he plopped down onto his bed, propping himself on his side with one elbow. He typed out a response and pressed ‘send’.

**peter**  
_Hey, no worries. You’re a busy guy, I understand… this is Quentin, right?_

**quentin**  
_Maybe…. No, just kidding, it’s me_

**quentin**  
_But thank you. Let me make it up to you._

Swallowing a tad, Peter inhaled after realizing he had fallen slightly short of breath.

**peter**  
_Don’t be silly, you don’t have to do anything for me._

**quentin**  
_Well, I don’t take no for an answer_

He felt like covering his face within his pillow, despite no one being around. Quentin was seriously getting to him, and this was over a text message. Before he could reply, another text came in.

**quentin**  
_How about Saturday?_

Peter blinked in slight confusion. Maybe Quentin sent that second text to the wrong person.

**peter**  
_…saturday?_

**quentin**  
_Yeah. If you’re free, of course. I was thinking take out, but I’m not sure if you’re a fan of that_

**quentin**  
_Gonna be honest, I’m still pretty curious about your studies_

He felt himself begin to break out in a nervous sweat. Quentin wasn’t asking him out on a date, was he?

No. No way. Quentin just… He just wanted to be his friend. This was normal, anyway. Peter didn’t really ever get a chance to experience ‘normal’, seeing as he was usually the most antisocial kid in the room.

**peter**  
_My notes and projects aren’t as impressive as yours, im sure. I do want to see what you’ve worked on, though_

He swiftly swiped back to his chat with Ned and he’s conversion. 

**peter**  
_Hey, Ned, sorry— gonna have to take a rain check for this weekend_

Heading back to he and Quentin’s conversation, his heart was beating fast as ever as he sent another response. 

**peter**  
_Saturday’s good with me. What time should I come by? _

“Hey! Dinner’s ready!” May popped her head into the room, eyeing Peter curiously.

“Oh, uh—” He set his phone down onto his dresser, clearing his throat quietly as he turned his stare to his aunt. “Okay. Thanks, May.”

“Who are you texting?” She asked harmlessly, smiling suggestively. “A girl?"

“May…”

“Okay, okay! Just… curious.” She said. “Come, before dinner gets cold.” Heading back to the kitchen, sounds of silverware and ceramic plates sounded against the table.

“Yep, coming…” Peter mumbled, checking his phone one last time.

**quentin**  
_How’s 8:00 sound? I can pick you up._

His fingers never moved so fast in his life to respond.

**peter**  
_That’s perfect. I'll see you Saturday._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's just glad he has a new friend. Quentin, however, has other plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Another update coming in, since I really can't get enough of these boys.
> 
> I also just found out I'm going to see Jake Gyllenhaal on Broadway next week, which- Awesome, I think. I can't wait to see that beautiful man live.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

Peter paced his room, back and forth, back and forth, desk to closet, chair to door. Beck was going to pick him up any minute – He hadn’t eaten dinner yet, not after knowing they were going to order takeout to eat. It still baffled Peter’s mind that they were going to have _dinner_ together. It had to be a friendly dinner, though. A nice, friendly dinner, where the two of them nerded out about what they did on their past times.

Quentin couldn’t have been that much of a nerd. In a way, though, Peter easily believed it. Being cute _and_ smart simultaneously was enough for Peter to pass out, but he did his best to keep to himself while thinking about what was going to occur in the next few hours.

May was out – Somewhere with friends, she said. She asked if he needed anything, but he promised he was fine and let her know he’d be out. _With a friend_, he reminded her, despite the nagging curiosity she had about Peter’s romantic life.

He hadn’t even come out to her yet – he wondered if being bisexual really would be a big deal to his aunt, and although he figured it probably wouldn’t, there was still that fear she’d tell him to pack a suitcase and get the hell out of her apartment.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Quentin had asked for his apartment number, despite Peter reassuring him that he didn’t have to come all of the way up to the fifth floor to get him. He breathed out, grabbing his wallet, phone, keys, and Quentin’s umbrella, before taking one last glance in the mirror within the bathroom to make sure his hair looked alright. Nodding, perhaps to give himself a mental pep talk, he nervously approached the front door, unlocked it, reached for the knob and pulled it open.

Quentin glanced up when Peter opened the door, seemingly just about to text him that he was here, but he smiled when he saw him and tucked his phone into his jacket pocket. He had a backpack around his shoulders, black and simple, but today he wore a white, long-sleeve shirt and jeans. His coat was black, as usual, so Peter figured he only had one or two. Nonetheless, Beck had style. For the first time, however, Quentin seemed sheepish.

“Hey, Beck.” Peter beamed, through his smile faltered a tad at Quentin’s expression. “Everything all right?”

Quentin didn’t seem to mind one bit that Peter had addressed him as such. “Uh—Yeah. It’s all right. Unfortunately, though… There’s going to have to be a change of plans.”

Peter paused for a moment. He really hoped Quentin wasn’t cancelling. It’d be really sweet if he came all of the way here to let him know he couldn’t do tonight, but really, Peter hoped he wasn’t cancelling. “What’s wrong?”

Quentin exhaled, guiding fingers through his hair, which looked a bit messily done before he came. It suited him, very well. “The entire side of my apartment building lost power. So, no heat. It’s kind of freezing in there.” He admitted apologetically. “I brought all my notes and everything to share with you, so… If you’d like to just eat at the takeout place, we can do that?” He offered.

Peter’s smile returned. Okay, Quentin was adorable. He’s never seen him shy before, not during the two other times he’s spoken to him, at least, but his timid expression was easily lovable. “Oh, that’s not a problem at all.” He said, biting his lip in thought, before he stepped back, inviting Quentin in. “We could chill here, if you’d like. I can order the food.”

He seemed unsure at first. “…Yeah? I don’t want to invade—”

“Dude, you’re totally fine.” Peter reassured, and with that, Quentin nodded, slowly stepping inside.

“Well, at least let me pay for dinner, then.” He said, weakly coaxing Peter, though it was pretty easy considering how soft his voice was. “This place is yours?”

Peter laughed. “No. It’s my Aunt May’s.” He explained. “Or—Well, I live here with her. She’s not home right now, but…” Inwardly, Peter cringed. _Obviously_, she wasn’t home. “I help out with rent.” He stated. “Uh—I’m not sure if you know the name, but she runs the F.E.A.S.T. charity for the homeless?”

“Oh—Yeah, I pass by there all of the time. Your aunt runs that?” He asked.

Peter nodded, guiding Quentin in after the door was shut, setting his things down onto the kitchen table. “Yeah. Aunt May’s really cool.” He smiled.

He nodded, before glancing down to Peter’s hands. “Have something for me?” Quentin asked playfully.

Peter flushed deeply. “H—Uh—Hm?”

He laughed softly. “My umbrella.”

Peter glanced down at the umbrella in his hands, the one he was definitely still holding way too awkwardly. “Oh—Right. Right! Sorry, I—I was going to give it back to you today. You left it at the café.” He said, handing it.

Quentin smiled gratefully, reaching out the take it. “Thank you. I must’ve been in too big of a rush to grab it.” He admitted, bringing it into his grasp.

“Oh, that’s—That’s okay. I didn’t grab mine that morning, either.” He laughed shyly. “Uh— How about we hang in the living room? It’s a lot cozier.”

Quentin nodded, and Peter started to head into the living room. He glanced to him as he walked away, before reaching over at the kitchen table and scooping up Peter’s phone into his hands.

“I have all of my notes in my bag, so… I’m all organized whenever you’re r—” Peter swung around, but paused when he glanced down. Quentin was holding out his phone to him.

“You left it in the kitchen.” He said gently, giving Peter a small smile.

“Oh. Thanks.” Peter beamed back softly. “I was actually just about to go grab it.” He said. “Why don’t you, uh—Make yourself at home? I gotta grab something from my room.” He offered, the nerves starting to kick in right about… now.

He rushed out of the room as swiftly as possible, stepping into his bedroom with his phone in hand, closing the door behind him and resting his back against the door. He sighed, leaning back and bringing a hand over his face. Quentin was in his apartment. He was in his _living room_, and they were about to sit together, share takeout and talk about one of Peter’s favorite subjects, ever. It was a dream. A dream come true, actually, except where Peter faced the fact that Quentin was probably in his thirties, was here as a friend and really just did want to talk about science.

Giving himself a moment, he stepped back out once he was calmer. He came back empty-handed (aside from his phone), despite telling Quentin he needed something, and offered him a light smile as he approached. “All right. What do you want to eat?”

* * *

By the time the takeout came, Peter and Quentin had sunk down to the floor behind the coffee table. Quentin was the first to take out all of his notes – He had papers splayed out along the surface, displaying all types of prototypes and suggestions, critiquing his work and whatnot. They’d been talking about their interests for a good hour at this point, if not more.

“So, these are some of the adjustments I made to it, which… I’m not sure if it was for better or worse, but… It _should_ work by the time I get everything together.” He explained, glancing to Peter, who was leaning forward to admire the man’s handwriting and notes, eyes wide as if he were a kid with candy.

_God, it’s almost too easy,_ Quentin thought.

“Woah. You put this together yourself?” He asked, completely amazed, and he looked up at Quentin after staring at the papers for some time. The takeout containers were half-empty on the table, two soda cans opened and resting idly on the coasters. “It’s so funny—You know, Mr. Stark uses, like, the same layout and everything. For notes, I mean.”

_Wonder why_, Quentin almost said, nearly with a bit of salt, but offered a kind smile instead. “Really?”

“Yeah. I guess great minds think alike.” Peter complimented in a cheesy way, leaning back against the bottom of the couch with a light expression towards his new friend. “You should totally intern for him.”

“Now, Peter,” Quentin teased, as if to say _you flatter me_, but he didn’t say it, not deliberately, not out loud. “Come on. Let me see some of your stuff.”

“Well…” Peter started, looking to his bag in an unsure manner, though eventually he reached for it. Shuffling around his backpack after he was able to unzip it, he tugged out a messy pile of notes, quite the contrary to Quentin’s organized folder. “It’s, uh—Well, I brought the stuff that Mr. Stark and I have been working on.” He admitted.

Quentin rose a brow. If Peter was showing him stuff from Stark Industries, there had to be something there with his name written all over it. Maybe not explicitly, but something Stark snatched from his, dunno, four or five years that he spent mentoring Quentin.

He wouldn’t let Peter know that, though.

Peter eventually revealed about ten to twenty papers filled with exactly Quentin presumed he would show – holographic studies.

“So, uhm… I don’t know if I’m really supposed to show you this…” He admitted quietly, as if someone could have been listening.

Quentin scooted a bit closer to Peter upon the carpet, tilting his head as he looked down at the papers that were now in front of him, spread out one by one by the teenager next to him.

“It’s, uhm… Well, it’s supposed to be at the next Stark Expo.” Peter explained, still keeping his voice down a bit more. “Tony kind of wants to surprise everyone with his new tech.”

_His_ new tech. Quentin had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. He was starting to feel his blood boil.

He kept calm and collected, giving Peter the gentlest of grins. He had to remind himself that Peter was just the middleman. “I won’t tell anyone.” He said, as if it were a promise, despite knowing that promise would be chipped away immediately. “Peter… These notes are incredibly impressive.” He said after a moment, picking up one of the papers, and examining it. It did have some new information – stuff Beck never really got to due to time constraints and Tony – and he had to admit, he _was_ impressed with how much Peter’s actually given to the project.

And yet, Tony was still calling it his.

“Oh, uh—Thanks.” Peter half-smiled, throat closing in at the proximity of Beck next to him and the compliment altogether. He was kind of opening up like a book to Beck now, despite only knowing him for a little less than a month. And even then, he’s only seen him three times.

Beck knew the kid was gullible; but not this gullible.

Anyway—it made his job easier.

“So… You helped him with this project, and everything?” Beck asked.

“A lot of it.” Peter nodded.

“You think he’ll give you any credit?” Beck rose a curious brow.

Peter stared back at him in slight confusion.

“I’m just saying… You know, the way you say it, seems to me he keeps calling it _his_ project. _His_ studies, despite it being yours _and_ his.” _And mine_, he thought quietly.

“Oh, I—I don’t need any credit.” He said, a tad reserved. “Really, I probably barely made a dent in it all.”

“Barely a dent? Pete, look at these notes. They’re insane. They’re _awesome_.” He said encouragingly, and Peter stifled a timid chuckle, hoping to hide the flush at his cheeks. “I mean it. He should be thanking you for doing all of this for him.”

Peter was quiet, and Beck felt a bit triumphant; all he needed was to get Peter’s gears grinding a bit. The kid would figure the rest out on his own.

“Well, it’s…” Peter shrugged, trying to get off the subject of Tony. “He did say my projects helped out.”

“But did he say ‘thank you’? In any way, shape or form?” Beck asked lightly, an eyebrow raised in question, but not pushy enough to send Peter away.

“I’m… I’m sure he’s thankful.” He said quietly, swiftly turning to another point. He didn’t want to think about it, because now that he started to, he realized Tony really hadn’t said ‘thank you’ at all, not once. “He’s calling it the Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing.” Peter stated, and Quentin glanced up at him with a nod. “Or, B.A.R.F.”

Beck had to pause at that, and then do a double take. He blinked, his eyebrows knitting together as he stared at Peter, long and hard, inhaling slowly through his chest. “Y—” He shook his head, closing his eyes briefly to contain his anger, before gazing upon Peter with a gentler, more innocently confused look. “B.A.R.F.?”

“Yeah, I know… Not the best name.” Peter laughed a little, too busy to notice Beck’s unamused expression while he looked over his own notes. “But… it works, and it’s really awesome, so it makes up for it. It’s amazing, trust me.” He said, slowly turning back to Beck. “Hey— You should come.”

Beck laughed a little. “Don’t you need a ticket to get in? Or some kind of invitation?” He asked.

Peter shrugged, thinking to himself. “Well… I’ll get one for you.”

Beck masked the smirk, and instead allowed a soft, almost surprised smile to appear at his lips. “You’d get me one? To see Tony Stark at his very own Expo?”

Oh, yeah. This was way, way, _way_ too easy.

Peter nodded. “Yeah! Tony will probably give me a bunch of tickets for Aunt May and my friends, so…” He shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

“Wow… Thanks, Pete. That’s really kind of you.” Beck said, and he reached up, placing a hand upon Peter’s shoulder to pat it gently.

Beck knew he got the kid started. He could tell from the moment he actually walked into that sad atmosphere of a coffee shop that Peter couldn’t keep it together for him. But this, this was supposed to be a job. He would befriend Peter, get what he needed, and then get the hell out.

He was pretty much at that stage, if not already, but… He still had a little bit of room to play around, didn’t he?

Peter cleared his throat, nodding swiftly as Beck’s hand slid down to the upper part of his back. “Yeah. Yeah, uh—I mean, no problem.” He said.

Beck chuckled softly. “Relax, Peter. It’s only me.” He promised in a near-whisper, staring at him with an utmost fond expression.

Peter forced himself to calm down with another nod. “Yeah, I’m fine—I am.” He said. He was trying to be, but it was hard when Beck’s hand clearly felt angelic through the fabric of his shirt, or so Beck could tell.

Kid must’ve been really sheltered. Or touch-starved.

Beck perked inwardly at the thought. Maybe he _could_ have a little bit of fun with this.

“Are you all right?” He asked gently, beginning to smooth a hand slowly up and down Peter’s back. “It looks like you’re burning up.”

“H— Yeah, yep. You’ve no idea.” Peter murmured, avoiding Beck’s eyes, despite restraining himself the best he could from leaning right back into Beck’s hand.

“Okay.” Beck smiled, and then suddenly tore his hand away. He briefly glanced at his phone to check for messages – however, he paled at the time.

He was supposed to be back with his team in ten minutes.

“Shit,” He cursed under his breath.

“Is everything okay?” Peter asked gently.

“Uh—Yeah, it’s just fine.” He nodded. “I just got notice that I have to sign for something back at the apartment… For the heat to get fixed.”

Lie.

Peter deflated a bit. “Oh—You have to leave?”

“Mhm. The landlord wants me back.” He explained.

Another lie.

“Sorry, Pete.” He said, and he truly did seem apologetic.

To be quite truthful, Beck did get a little lost with the time. It flew right by him, and he’s not really sure how.

“No, it’s okay.” Peter said after a moment, beginning to stand. “Thanks for coming. I had a really nice time.”

“Hey, me too, kiddo.” Beck said, giving Peter a soothing grin.

Okay… not a lie. Despite this being obligatory, Beck really kind of did have a good time around Peter. He couldn’t help it. The kid was a fucking ray of sunshine. Tony Stark didn’t deserve a genius like this on his team.

“So… You’ll get me those tickets?” He asked in a hopeful manner.

Peter laughed. “Yeah, you got it.” He said with a nod, getting Beck’s jacket for him.

Quentin approached the door, thanking Peter as he took the coat, bringing it over his shoulders.

“Oh—Hey, your umbrella.” Peter said, grabbing it from the table before he went to hand it to Quentin once more.

Beck chuckled. “Almost forgot it again, didn’t I?” He said with a smile. However, when he reached out for it, he gently pushed it towards Peter.

Peter appeared puzzled for a moment.

“I have so many of them.” Quentin stated truthfully. “Keep it as a back up. I don’t want you catching anything while you’re out there.”

“Oh… Beck, I can’t—”

“You can.” Quentin smiled. “_Keep it._ Okay? It belongs with you, anyway.”

Peter laughed a little, a tad shocked at the kind gesture. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Keeping the fond expression, Beck opened up the door and stepped out. “Text me, okay?”

“Yeah.” Peter nodded swiftly, as if he couldn’t believe that someone wanted to continue to speak to him. “Yes, I will.”

Beck gave him one last wave goodbye, and as soon as he was out of the building and heading towards his car, he dialed a number on his phone and brought it up to his ear.

“Beck?”

“Hey, Riva. It’s me. Listen, I think I just got us a way into the Expo.” He said, sliding into the driver’s seat, keeping the phone pressed to his ear. “Kid already said he’d get me an invitation in.”

“No, shit.” The voice came in from the other line. “What about the—”

“Umbrella’s bugged. I gave it to him.” Beck said, leaning back in the car seat. “His phone has the tracker all set up, too. We’re good to go.”

“All right. Good. You better get your ass back here. We can map out a lot with the information you’re giving us.”

“Yeah.” Beck nodded, starting up the car. He took one last glance at the apartment building, and despite feeling a twinge of guilt, buried it as he pulled the car out of its parking spot and head down the road. “I’m on my way.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter can't help but feel as if Quentin and he do click, just like that. However, he's starting to wonder how he's never seen how much he and Mr. Stark do not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! More manipulation from our boy, but more heart-to-hearts with our babies.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter. <3

“What are you doing here so late, kid?”

Peter had definitely overstayed at the lab. It had to be around eleven o’clock at night, and although May did know he was there, she had no idea he’d be there that long. Oblivious to his phone being blown up with phone calls and texts, Peter kept it on silent and tucked away in his pocket. The work table was littered with papers and crumbled, half-ripped notes, although still significant in Peter’s mind. He had grown slightly startled at the sound of a voice, but fell relaxed when he spun in his stool to see Tony Stark standing at the door, arms crossed as he leaned against the frame. He offered to Tony a bit of an exhausted smile. He was pretty sure he had class at eight tomorrow morning. “Hey, Mr. Stark. I, uh… I’m just working on a project. It’s usually really quiet here, so… I figured it’s a better workspace than my room.”

Tony nodded in understanding, slowly approaching Peter as he spun back to face his work. Tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks, he peered over Peter’s shoulder curiously. His brows knit in interest, and he looked a little closer. “What’s this project?”

“Uhm… Well, the notes are from a friend of mine. He wanted a little bit of input from me, so…” Peter said, glancing behind him to read Tony’s expression. He half-hoped Tony would be impressed, but to no avail, Tony was already scrutinizing.

Tony squinted a bit, still peering over the notes. They looked all too familiar in his eyes. “Uh-huh…” He said, reaching out to take one of the papers in his hands. It looked like Peter’s handwriting was all mixed up with his ‘friend’s’, but he dare not say anything at the moment. If it’s who he thought it was, Peter wouldn’t be too fond to find out more. “You even know what you’re building?”

“Yeah,” Peter stated, though he had to admit, he was a tad unsure. Beck’s notes were impressive, a little hard to follow as well, but he still went along with it due to sheer curiosity. “It’s, like… A monitoring system, of sorts. For security.” He explained lamely.

“Looks like a weaponized drone to me, kiddo.” Tony said.

“No—No, it’s not dangerous, or anything…” Peter murmured.

“Well,” Tony dragged a stool over, plopping down next to Peter in a matter-of-fact way, and he brought his finger over to hover along information upon one of the spreadsheets. “If you look here, it looks like he wants you to install an adjustable bore that’ll fit within the encasing. It’s got the first and second reinforce as well, and here…” Tony guided his finger along until it stopped towards the bottom of the paper, “… is where your little friend can put his ammunition.”

Peter swallowed a tad, looking to Tony. “No, that’s… He’s not having me build anything dangerous, okay? It’s just an experiment.” He said, trying to urge the matter, even if he knew Tony was smarter than he. Much smarter.

“Mhm.” Tony started, unconvinced, and he briefly glanced to his watch.

“Am I… overstaying?” He asked quietly.

Tony peered up at him again. “No, just… Why don’t you get home? It’s getting pretty late. I’m not much of a sleeper, either, but it’s nearly midnight and your aunt will kill me if I keep you out this late again.”

Peter sighed, bringing a face over his hands. He kept his face hidden for a while, before nodding and bringing them away. “Yeah, sure.”

Tony clapped a hand on his back, smiling a tad. “I’ll help you clean up.”

* * *

“And, you know, it’s not even really a bad thing—I just wished he wasn’t so focused on his stupid girlfriend.” Peter rambled, fumbling with the paper cup of half-drank hot chocolate in front of him. Exhaling, he glanced up at Beck with an apologetic expression. “Sorry… I know I ramble a lot, and everything.”

Quentin smiled, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head. The café Peter worked at was quiet. It was nearly dark outside, restaurant lights bright against the approach of nighttime, the usually bustling streets now occupied with the occasional taxi searching for new customers. Peter and he were the only ones in there. It was after closing, and Quentin had offered for them to meet up and talk a little bit, seeing as they hadn’t for a couple of days. He had a habit of disappearing on Peter randomly, though Peter never thought to ask. “You don’t have to apologize, Peter. It must be a lot for you to face all of this on your own, but—You know I’m here if you ever need to talk.”

Peter’s expression softened. “Yeah… Yeah, I know. I just don’t want to bore you with, well…” He waved a lazy hand, slowly looking down at his drink. “The unimportant stuff.”

“Hey,” Beck said, coaxing Peter to relax, and he leaned forward in his chair to place his hand over Peter’s wrist, which was resting atop the table. “It’s not unimportant, Peter. Not to me.” He smiled, applying slight pressure to the tips of his fingers to gently squeeze Peter’s wrist in a comforting manner. It was almost entirely covered by his jacket sleeve, but the stretch of skin that wasn’t covered spread with warmth at the feeling.

Peter, despite wanting to calm down, couldn’t exactly when Beck was in such proximity to him. The two of them had grown really close over the last month or so, often finding any time that Beck had to see each other at Peter’s apartment or go out somewhere for lunch. And now, here they were, sharing hot chocolates at the fall of dusk while Peter gushed over the man across from him in his chair. A nervous smile appeared at his lips, though his eyes were grateful. “Thank you, Quentin.”

Quentin released Peter’s wrist in an almost reluctant manner, returning the gentle expression. “You don’t have to thank me.” He said.

Peter opened his mouth to say something, but his train of thought took a sharp turn when he suddenly piped, “Oh!”, and then began to dig into his backpack. Turning in his chair, he reached down to his back and unzipped it, fumbling around until he pulled out two slips of red paper, coated in gold around the lining. Smiling, he carefully slid them over to Quentin and across the table. “For you.”

Quentin reached for them, and his eyes widened slightly. “Is this—?”

“Yup. Tickets to the Expo.” Peter grinned.

He examined the tickets briefly. “The Expo. It’s… awfully close to—”

“Christmas, I know… But, I mean, it’s still a week before it, right?” Peter tried to convince. “Are… Are you gonna go?”

Quentin glanced over at Peter, and his lips twitched into a smile. “I’ll see if I can make it. Thank you so much for these, Pete.” He said, placing them into his wallet for safety.

Peter nodded, his knee bouncing nervously under the table. He kind of jumped from topic to topic way too quickly, but he’s been dying to ask Quentin for a couple of weeks now. “Hey, uh… Beck?”

“Mm?” Quentin looked up after he stashed his wallet in the pocket of his coat, sipping at his beverage as he gazed over at Peter in interest.

“Uh… I was wondering—” Peter cleared his throat, “I mean… I don’t know that much about you, so… I don’t know what goes on in your life, or… Or who you have in your life, or…” He stammered, already beginning to feel himself sweat under his clothes. 

Quentin rose a brow.

“Do’yamaybewannacomeoverforThanksgiving?” Peter flushed out, sitting up in his chair a bit, suddenly becoming much too self-aware.

Beck laughed a little. “What’d you say? I didn’t get that.”

Peter inhaled at the idea of actually coming out and saying that again, but he forced himself to calm before he spoke once more. “Uhm… Well, I was wondering if… Maybe you’d like to come over. For Thanksgiving.” He said.

Quentin blinked. “Me?”

Peter nodded. “I mean—If you don’t have anything going on. Aunt May, she loves having you around, and… She’d really like for you to come. She’s not the best cook, but… I can promise her food won’t kill you?”

Beck heisted, at first. It seemed as if he were mulling it over in his head, and although Peter wasn’t exactly sure why. He gave him his space while he thought, and then finally, after an agonizing ten seconds, Quentin simply went, “Sure.”

Peter perked up at that. “You—Yes?”

Beck’s smile returned, and then he let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Yeah, sure, kiddo. I’d love to come over for Thanksgiving.” He said, and he was silent for a moment before he spoke up again. “Would it perhaps be all right if I brought my mother?” He asked. “Often, I’m… I’m not too fond of leaving her alone, especially when Hospice Care can’t come all of the time.”

Peter’s expression softened. “… Yeah. Yeah, Beck, Aunt May won’t mind at all.” He said, his cocoa beginning to grow cold, but he didn’t mind. “Can I… Can I ask—?”

“It was an accident.” Quentin said simply, giving Peter a tight-lipped smile. “She was struck by a car last year, and… The head trauma caused her eyesight to go completely out the window.”

Peter stilled for a moment, gazing over at Beck with an empathetic appearance. He hated to throw that whole I’m-sorry-I’m-here-whenever kind of look towards Quentin, because he’s been given it thousand of times whenever he breaks the news about his own parents to whoever doesn’t know. “Well… I hope she’s recovering well.” Peter said softly.

Quentin looked back to him, and seemed grateful. He seemed content that he wasn’t given another false apology or look of pity. “Yeah. It’s why I’m always so busy. And also why I don’t have you over often.” He admitted. “I have work to worry about, and taking care of her…”

“I’m sure it’s a lot.” Peter said lightly. “You probably deserve a break.”

Quentin smiled. “Well, I feel like I get a break whenever I talk to you.”

Peter’s heart skipped a bit. _Focus, Peter…We’re having a conversation._ “D’you think… Could I ask where you work?”

He slid his hands into the pockets of his coat. “I’m, uh—I’m a P.I. In a way, an undercover cop.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Like, the C.I.A.? Or S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

Quentin laughed. “Yeah, something like that.”

“That’s so cool! My mom used to do that kind of stuff.” Peter said, though his smile faltered a tad at the mention. Despite a decade passing, Peter still felt it cling at his heartstrings.

Beck proceeded into the conversation with caution. “Can I ask a question now?”

Peter glanced to him, smiling sadly. “Car crash.” He said, ironically. Or, unironically… Coincidentally. Whatever. “Mom was on a case, and Dad insisted he go along.” He shrugged, turning his eyes away. “I don’t know the full story, but they didn’t come home that night.” He murmured. “I was eight.”

Quentin frowned at that. “That’s very young.”

“Yeah…” Peter guided his tongue over the dryness of his lips. “But I have May. And she’s all I could ever ask for.” He nodded, a short-lived smile casting at his features. “I know I have friends, and Mr. Stark, but… May… May is one of the only things that’s keeping me going.” He admitted with a gentle smile.

He tilted his head. “You and Tony Stark are that close, huh?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I think so.” He said in an uncertain manner. “He helps out and chips in with all my projects, and everything.”

Quentin squinted a tad. “You seem a little unsure about that.”

He shrugged. “No, it’s not that. Tony’s just really busy, so… He doesn’t always have time for me. Which is totally okay.” Peter nodded.

Quentin seemed unpersuaded.

“What? It is!” Peter defended lightly.

“No, I know, but—” Beck paused, forming his words. “Your projects are amazing, Peter. Your insight is incredible. And it seems to me like Tony’s just brushing you off.”

Peter scoffed nervously, looking down at his near-empty cup. He was still fumbling with it. “No. No, he isn’t.”

“Tony just spent two weeks in the Bahamas.” Quentin pointed out with a raised expression. “It was all over the news.”

“Yeah, well—I’m sure he needed some time off…” Peter murmured.

“With his co-workers?” Quentin commented. “He took five or six of his employees, didn’t he?” He asked curiously. “All saying that it had to do with the Stark Expo. A get-away for further analysis and ‘experimentation’.”

Peter’s shoulders sunk a little at the thought of that. Tony _did_ say that he was a part of the project, a big part… And yet, he just went away, without any mention to Peter. He had to find out from the front page of the New York Post. “Well—He knows I have school—” 

“And he knows you’re smart.” Beck bit back, though he seemed to be in Peter’s favor in this case. “You could have taken two weeks off of classes. You wouldn’t have missed a beat.”

Peter both flushed at the compliment and felt further downcast that Tony was doing all of this without him. He really did want to prove his responsibility to Mr. Stark, but he never got the chance. That could have been one big chance. “I don’t know…”

Quentin exhaled, gazing over Peter with understanding. “Don’t feel bad about it, Peter. You can’t help his selfishness.”

Peter flinched at that. “He’s not—He’s not selfish, he’s just…” He sighed.

Quentin could tell he might have struck a nerve, so he backed off a bit. “A busy guy.”

Peter nodded, looking up to him.

Beck smiled over at him. “I hope that’s the case.” He said gently. “Why don’t I drive you home? I don’t like the idea of you taking the subway alone at night.”

Peter’s chest flared with warmth, though he agreed perhaps too swiftly.

* * *

“Fuck…” Quentin huffed, slamming the door behind him as he stepped into his apartment, kicking the door for good measure after he stepped inside.

“Hey—No kickin’ doors down. We just got that lock fixed.” His mother said from the couch, where she had been listening to music and guiding her fingers along the pages of a book, in Braille, of course.

“Sorry… Sorry.” He murmured, though said it louder the second time, leaning his forearm against the door.

“Rough day?”

Quentin shut his eyes, and rest his forehead against the door.

He had always been able to do his jobs oh-so-easily. He’d do a wipe out in seconds and dispose of what he needed to without thought. He never really cared about who he hurt in the process, either, and did what had to be done in order to make the cash, bring it home, and take care of his mother.

And then, Peter Parker steps into his life.

This was supposed to be an easy job, too. And in a way, it already was. Quentin should be done with Peter. He has the invitations, already has Peter convinced that Stark is the asshole he is, and is nearly complete with the build-up of the drones (with Peter’s help). The notes are all there, and the parts just need to be assembled. He should cut Peter out of his life now. He’s supposed to, really, but it’s something about that kid he just can’t grasp, and at the same time, wants to.

He didn’t think he’d feel anything when he heard Peter’s sob story. He’s listened to thousands of stories, over and over, stories that he didn’t listen to and others that he couldn’t give a shit about. Everyone’s got something about them, but the idea that both of their parents had suffered due to a car crash raced deep inside Quentin’s chest. He tried to push down the arising guilt of the fact that he was doing all of this to a kid that had so much on his plate already. For Christ’s sake, he lost his parents when he was _eight years old_.

Quentin’s definitely not supposed to care about any of that.

Sometimes it angers him how good of a kid Peter is. He sees too much potential in Tony Stark, does whatever he can to help everyone around him, and takes all of the shit Flash gives him without throwing a punch. Quentin would have had a fit by now, for fuck’s sake.

The flame of anger died down to an ember when he recalled the events of earlier and reached their conversation about the upcoming holiday. Peter wanted him over for Thanksgiving. He wanted him there, at the table, eating with he and his aunt because she liked having him around, and so did Peter. Peter _enjoyed_ spending time with him, and quite frankly, Quentin did with him as well. Quentin didn’t exactly have any friends – He had people at ‘work’ ( Peter really ate into his false story about being an undercover cop ), people who held the same grudge towards Tony Stark and perhaps wanted equal revenge for his wrongdoings towards them, but he never had friends. His mother had always been his only family, and he never gave a shit about where his father ran off to the day after he was born.

He had to do this, though. He had to sacrifice his only chance at something real, because Tony Stark needed to go down.

“Yeah,” Quentin said, slowly pushing himself off the door. “Nothing to worry about.” Turning off the hallway light, he head into the apartment with a weak smile at his mother relaxed on the couch. A nice change from that old recliner she was always hunched over in. “We’ve got plans next week, by the way.”

“That so?” She asked, turning her head in the direction of his voice.

“Mhm.” He said, bringing a hand through his hair. “What? You think I’d never get you out of the house?” He grinned softly, approaching her as he shrugged off his coat.

A smile appeared at his lips, and a hand outstretched in where she presumed was his direction. “Come here.”

Quentin walked over to the couch, kneeling down so that she didn’t have to sit up from her comfortable position. He guided her hand to his cheek, and she brushed her thumb over his face. He placed a hand at her wrist, steadying it there. “Did you eat?”

She nodded, feeling over the stubble on his face. He needed a shave. “What’s these plans you’re talking about, baby?”

Quentin smiled, looking over to her with a gentle gaze, even if she couldn’t see it. “Thanksgiving.” He explained broadly. “You know that kid I’ve been talking to?”

“That Parker boy?” She asked.

He laughed. “Yeah. He invited us over.”

“_Ooh._” She chimed.

“What’s that?”

“You’ve actually got plans for once?” She rose a brow.

Quentin instead took hold of his mother’s hand, thumb tracing her knuckles. “Now, that’s mean.”

“Quentin…” She started, and her voice held a sudden sternness. “I don’t wanna go over there if this is… If it’s…”

He waited for her to finish, patient.

“If it’s a mission.” She decided.

Beck thought back once more to he and Peter in the coffee shop, and how eager Peter was to ask Quentin to come over. He smiled without realizing, the action wholeheartedly fond. Then, he shook his head. “Not a mission.” He promised.

She seemed unconvinced.

“Okay. Well, Peter’s _part_ of the mission…”

“Quentin…”

“_But_,” He cut in, “He’s also my friend.” At this, his voice grew small.

She sighed, and her hand reached for his chin to guide him over, planting a kiss to her son’s cheek. Then, she leaned back into the couch cushions once more, tucking her hands to her chest. “You’ve no idea what you’re getting yourself into, hon.”

Quentin rubbed at the back of his neck, shutting his eyes. He really, really didn’t.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin's definitely overstepping boundaries, and it gets him into trouble.

Bringing a hand over his face, Quentin grumbled softly, briefly within in his own world. The sounds of his teammates working around him had drowned into white noise for him, and he was sitting in front of a computer, sleeves rolled up while his elbows were propped upon the desk, eyes absolutely heavy.

This project had been bigger, bigger than any other project they took on. Most of Quentin’s duties were a quick kill, a swift elimination where he could go home for awhile until they decided to bother him again, and threaten him, had he not joined.

No, this project was complicated. Awfully complicated, maybe a little unnecessary, and yet, maybe it just might work.

Quentin was just supposed to be hired as a hitman; and he was, he’s killed more people than he’d like to admit. But on discovering his wit and intellect, they so graciously threatened and coerced him onto the team to work for them, with slight convincing over his hatred of Tony Stark. 

He was awoken from his thoughts when he felt a nudge to his shoulder and peeked his eyes open in order to glance whoever had disturbed him. As usual, it was Riva.

“What’s up?” Quentin said in exhaustion, leaning back in his chair.

“Boss wanted me to relay something to you,” Riva said, a tad bit of anxiousness inching at the edge of his voice, fingertips fumbling with one another. “A message. Or… Well, a mission.”

Quentin squinted a tad. “A mission?”

“Side-mission, I guess… Or, part of this mission.” Riva waved his hands about slightly. “It’s about the kid.”

Paling a tad, Beck inhaling, staring at Riva unsurely. “What’s the kid got to do with this?” Quentin asked, a little defensive. “We got what we needed. The invitations, the drones – We’re done with the kid.” To be truthful, Quentin didn’t want to care about Peter. No, he couldn’t help it, but it’s not like he would share that information with anyone aside from his mother. She had no one to tell but him… No one had to know.

“Well—Boss, he—”

Quentin rose a hand up towards Riva. “Y’know what? I’m gonna stop you right there. If he wants me to do something, he can talk to me himself.” He huffed.

“He’s not in right now.” Riva explained quietly.

“Yeah? Well, I’ll see him Monday, then.” Quentin stated, closing the computer screen, and standing up to start to pack his things. “If it was that urgent, he would have come to me himself.” He explained, though he really was just dreading to hear about what his boss wanted him to do about Peter. In fact, he’d never like to know. “I’m finished here.”

Besides, Quentin had a dinner to catch. It was Thanksgiving, after all.

He knew what he was doing was dangerous. He could only imagine what his boss wanted to say, what his boss wanted him to do, though he tried not to ponder about the situation. He had rushed out of their worksite and out to his car, faster than he ever had, and hopped into the drivers seat to head out of there before his boss might have magically appeared.

But, back to the dangerous part of it all; he knew it was dangerous by continuing to speak to Peter. He should have cut ties by now. The kid meant nothing to him, or, well, was _supposed_ to mean nothing, and yet Quentin couldn’t find it in himself to let the kid go. He felt strangely drawn to him, and he hated that he did because this wasn’t even supposed to be a _friendship_. He was supposed to acquaint himself with Peter, grab the invitations and walk out of the kid’s life as if he had never existed.

He just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Handing Peter his notes about the drones was a bit of a _fuck you_ to Tony, in a way. He knew Tony was smart enough to realize they were his notes, if he had even seen Peter working on them. He figured it was a bit of harmless play. Tony would never actually know about the team’s plan for the Stark Expo, and so even if Tony had known he and Peter were close now, he might think nothing of it. Quentin was never hostile towards him, not openly, and after being kicked out of Stark Enterprises after practically handing over to Tony all of his work, Beck didn’t even bother messaging the guy again.

Hell, he was fired by his ridiculous ‘second in command’, or whatever one would like to call it. Tony couldn’t even do the job himself.

Quentin sighed, replaying the thoughts inside of his head, the car stopping at a red light as he dragged his calloused hands over his bearded face. He _did_ need a shave.

When he stopped home early afternoon, he gave his mom a kiss on the cheek and took a quick shower. And then, after the two of them were dressed, they hopped into the car with a pre-made apple pie as a ‘thank you’ to the Parker family, and head over to his apartment building. Quentin shaved the beard, but left some stubble, deciding on a comfortable pair of black jeans and sweater.

“I haven’t been out in ages.” His mother sighed contently, the windows rolled down while the clock read four sixteen p.m. She smiled. “The city still smells horrible.”

Quentin laughed at that. “Yeah, it does. But it’s not all that bad.”

“Wish I could see it all again.” She said lightly. “Or maybe Times Square at night, just once more.”

His expression softened, and his eyes left the road briefly to glance over at her with sympathetic features.

“Hey, stop that.”

He chuckled again. “What?”

“I know you’re lookin’ at me, all dewy eyed. You’ve been doing that since you were a kid.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “How did you even know?”

“’Cause you always do that when I say stuff like that.” She said, her smile remaining, harmless as ever.

“I think you just know me too well.” Beck said, grin as gentle as hers, fingers tapping at the steering wheel as the radio played Harrison’s_ All Things Must Pass _, nice and low.

“I should hope so. I’m your mother.” She replied.

They pulled in front of Peter’s apartment, and Beck fell silent as soon as he twisted the keys out of ignition. He had to admit, he was anxious. This was just a little too domestic for a guy like him. Most Thanksgivings, he was never even home. He guessed it was a nice change, and yet at the same time, he felt undeserving of something as simplistic as a Thanksgiving dinner.

He should head home. He should block Peter’s number, and never talk to the kid again. It was safest, especially for Peter.

Before he could turn the car back on, his mother was getting out, feeling for the door handle and unbuckling her seatbelt. Quentin exhaled, knowing there wasn’t any turning back now, especially after bringing his mom for a day out. She was having a good day, and despite not all too eager to meet the family that Quentin was using to plot against Tony Stark, she was craving to meet new people.

Quentin hurried as he got out to lock the car and head around, helping his mom up to the curb and looping an arm around hers.

“Thank you, hon.” She said, beginning to follow him towards the entrance.

Someone buzzed them in, and Quentin led his mother to the elevator, trying to alleviate his nerves as he stepped inside. He could still turn back now. They could head out, head back home and Quentin could focus on the project. The Stark Expo was in less than a month, and he was supposed to be focusing on the bigger things at hand now.

Like, for example, taking out Tony Stark.

With that, there was no remorse. With the growing resentment and anger towards the man for practically sending him away at one of the worst times of his life, Quentin couldn’t find it in himself to feel any sympathy for the man. His mother had just recently become blind at the time, still healing from her wounds, and Tony Stark decided to fire the guy (or get someone else to) while he was evidently struggling to pay for her medicine and their rent. She couldn’t go back to work – She earned severance, sure, and was nearly around the retiring age, but nothing was ever enough and everyone always wanted more, more and more.

Money, that is.

Quentin hadn’t even realized that his feet had carried him to the front of Peter’s apartment door, and they were standing there for a couple of seconds too long. Clearing his throat, he reached out and knocked on the door, squeezing his mother’s arm in a reassuring manner. The reassurance, however, felt more for himself than anything else.

Not a moment later, the door was opened, revealing May. Beautiful as ever, she was wearing a casual shirt over a pair of high-waisted jeans, and flashed a smile over at Quentin. Her hair was done, brushed and straight. “Hey—Quentin, it’s so good to see you again.” She said, stepping forward to greet him with a hug.

Quentin momentarily released the grip on his mother to step forward, hugging her back with a small smile. Pulling away, he beamed down at her. “May—This is my mother, Henrietta.”

“Please—Call me Rita.” His mother encouraged, reaching out blindly to shake May’s hand. May took it, giving her a smile, even if Rita couldn’t see it. She’d hear it in her voice, though.

“It’s so nice to meet you. Please, come in, you two.” She encouraged, stepping out of the way for Quentin to guide his mother in.

May helped Rita to a seat on the couch, while Peter was in the kitchen, currently setting the table. As soon as he heard Quentin enter the kitchen-dining-room-area, he whipped around and smiled widely, practically throwing himself at Quentin to tackle him into a hug.

Quentin chuckled as Peter launched himself at him, wrapping big arms around his smaller frame, embracing him tightly. “Hey, kiddo.” He whispered softly, as if he had to hide his fondness from May and Rita.

“Hi.” Peter said, voice small, though Quentin could feel him smiling against his neck. He pulled away, perhaps too swiftly for Quentin’s liking, and stared up at him with an obvious admiring expression. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Well, I told you I’d come.” Quentin stated, as if he hadn’t thought about backing out about six or seven times before he even reached Peter’s apartment. His arms remained on either of Peter’s biceps, rubbing them in a small, almost absent manner. In a way, it made him feel guilty. He knew soon enough his boss would give him shit and tell Beck to cut ties, immediately.

What was wrong with basking in it just a little longer?

Peter’s lips formed a fonder smile, had that been possible, exhaling in an almost content manner. “I feel like I haven’t spoken to you in days.” He admitted. “Well, I—I guess I haven’t.”

Quentin’s expression grew apologetic. “I’m sorry about that, Pete. I’m just really swamped at the moment.” He said, though the guilt increased steadily. Staring at Peter right in the eyes didn’t help, and yet he didn’t have it in him to look away.

“You’re always busy, though.” Peter murmured, though there was no hostility, for all he offered was an understanding smile.

Quentin smiled back, playful. “I know. I’m an old, busy man.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “You’re not old.” He said, though hesitated. “Wait—How old are you?”

Quentin hadn’t even realized he never shared this with Peter. He smiled a little. “Twenty-eight.” 

Peter nodded in response. Quentin wasn’t sure how he was going to react at first, until – “So, you are old.”

He chuckled, releasing Peter’s arms to instead nudge his shoulder. “Hey—I’m not _that_ old.”

“Old enough. And you said it yourself.” Peter smiled. “We should, uhm—I mean, I have to finish setting the table.”

“Let me help.” Quentin offered.

The two of them worked in laying out the plates, utensils, mats and glasses, and Quentin helped in bringing another chair over. There were already four seats there, which puzzled him slightly, seeing as it _was_ just the four of them. He figured May might have gotten confused, but brought the fifth one over, anyway. Peter did just say it would only be he and May.

Until, that is, someone stepped out of the bathroom and entered the dining room, seemingly airing out his hands while Quentin was helping May place all of the food onto the table.

“Hey—May, do you have a towe—” Happy paused as he caught sight of Quentin, and the two of them froze for a moment, slowly registering the fact that they knew each other. Quentin was mid-setting the mashed potatoes down onto the table, and nearly dropped them at the sight. 

Shit. So, _that_ was the guy that fired him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit more than Quentin would like comes out at dinner, but he's swift to take it into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahhefsjkf I just saw Jake Gyllenhaal with Tom Sturridge on Broadway, and they're both absolute fucking angels. If you live nearby the theater and have the chance to see it before it leaves Broadway, please do. I think I cried twice and I'm seeing the play again Tuesday.
> 
> Anyway, here's a chapter for you all. **Just a note**:  
\- I changed Quentin's age from thirty-one to twenty-eight, for moreover personal reasons and just a liiiiittle bit less of an age gap. It made more sense in my mind in regard to timeline as well.
> 
> All mistakes are my own. <3
> 
> P.S. Thank you all SO MUCH for the feeedback last chapter. I love each and every one of you. :')

Happy. That’s what his name was – Quentin was amidst trying to remember the guy’s full name as he took ahold of the back of one of May’s wooden dining room chairs, staring firmly over at the man who was still frozen by the entrance.

Happy… Happy What? His surname was something oddly fitting, despite the man’s name not characteristically accurate to his demeanor at all.

“What’s wrong?” May asked, finally breaking the silence, glancing between Happy and Quentin curiously.

Peter didn’t say anything, but he was just as puzzled as she was.

“Uh—Nothing.” Happy said, stare glued to Quentin. “He and I know each other.”

Peter blinked. “You do?”

Happy… Hanni? Happy… Hanover? No, that’s formal. Too formal for him.

“Mhm.” Happy nodded, thanking May quietly as the towel was handed to him. He dried off his hands slowly. “We used to work together.”

Quentin would have rolled his eyes, had he not watched himself. They hadn’t worked _together_, just in the same building. Happy was like… Well, he did everything for Stark. He could be considered a second Pepper Potts, but Potts was the best thing about that company, in Beck’s opinion.

Clearing his throat, he finally nodded as well. He needed to keep this as vague as possible. If anything about he and Stark spilled over dinner, Peter would be too suspecting.

How could he possibly ice the situation?

“Yeah, well…” Happy squinted a bit. “A little bit more than ‘worked together’. Quentin was on the project for—”

“Happy?” Quentin’s mother piped up as she entered the dining room, where she had just groped her way around from where she had been sitting at the couch.

Happy spun around, a bit of surprise on his features. “Rita? Is that you?”

Rita smiled, laughing a bit. “It sure is, honey. I hope I haven’t aged _that_ much. How are you?”

Okay—Yeah. _Yes._ That just might work.

“So… You know Happy, too, Rita?” May asked, now entirely puzzled.

“Oh, of course, I do. Before I was as blind as a bat, Happy here used update me on my son. Quentin was always a very quiet kid—”

“I was nineteen, mom.” Quentin murmured, flushing a bit. Did she have to go into it?

“Well, still a kid. Anyway, Happy would tell me whether or not Quentin was okay, if he was still at the office working.” She smiled warmly. “He was very specifically a fan of my tea.”

Happy laughed a little at that, now seemingly a bit more relaxed. Truthfully, Quentin was, too. His mom was pretty good at changing the subject.

Peter blinked, as if nothing had really been cleared up. He inched a little closer to Quentin, mumbling a, “You two worked together?”

Quentin glanced down at him, nodding a little.

“I _was_ a fan of your tea. I’m telling you, I don’t know how you made it, but it was delicious.” Happy smiled. “Uh—Rita’s a good friend of mine, May.” He explained. “We hadn’t really stayed in contact, though.”

“When?” Peter asked Beck softly. “Happy’s been working for Mr. Stark for… Well, for a long time. Was he an undercover cop with you, too?”

Excuse, excuse, think of something—

“Well—I’m glad we had this little reunion, then.” May laughed. “Come on, Quentin, Peter, let’s all sit. Rita—Come, I’ll help you. We don’t want the food to get cold.

Quentin avoided the question for now, clearing his throat as he sank down into one of the chairs, and Peter sat next to him. Food started to be served, the turkey was cut, and Quentin was desperately trying to ignore the gaze Peter was boring into the side of his head. The turkey was a little dry, but he hadn’t had it in a while and so he was trying to focus on chewing it, all while May was pouring a gracious amount of gravy onto his plate and Peter was still staring at him.

“You know, I used to make a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner.” Rita said, further reminiscing to pull Quentin out of the gutter. He loved his mother way too much for this. “Quentin was young, of course, maybe around seven or eight…” She smiled a little bit, and his heart ached at the sight. “But it was one of his favorite holidays.”

It was the only holiday Quentin liked. Christmas sucked ass, Valentines Day was a joke and he was in no way religious enough to celebrate Easter.

“His favorite were the mashed potatoes.” Rita laughed a little.

“Well, I hope I made them just as well as she did.” May said with a teasing smile.

The mash potatoes were overcooked and didn’t have enough salt or seasoning. Instead of saying so, though, Quentin beamed over at May with a nod. “They’re lovely, May. Thank you so much.”

As Quentin continued to focus on his dinner, the conversations went in separate directions. Rita, Happy and May were mostly talking, and Rita was trying very hard to avoid the topic of their recognition of Happy. It wasn’t too hard, seeing as everyone enjoyed listening to the blind lady with stories, and his mother was a great source of entertainment. She loved to talk, but she was one of the few people where you enjoyed listening to her.

He felt someone tugging gently as his sleeve, and reluctantly glanced to Peter. He didn’t want to, but he did, and Peter was staring at him like he was a pup that had just been kicked. His hand remained on Quentin’s forearm, which was hidden in his lap beneath the table.

“So, you and Happy knew each other?”

“Been through this already, Pete.” Quentin said harmlessly, forcing a smile.

“Right. I know.” Peter glanced down to the table cloth briefly, mulling it over in his head. “Just… You know, if you were nineteen when you and Happy worked together… Happy was still working for Mr. Stark.”

Peter was working it out in his head, and Quentin didn’t like it. He really, really didn’t. “Doesn’t mean Happy couldn’t have had two jobs.” He said, keeping his voice down while Happy spoke to his mother. “Remember? It was undercover.”

Peter paused, frowning a little, and then his true concern shone through. “But you were so young.”

Beck’s expression softened. Peter _had_ been trying to figure it out, but in a way that he was almost seemingly making sure that Quentin was okay. His chest and stomach twisted at the thought, because Peter was way too good of a kid for him to be doing this.

“Wasn’t the work you were doing… I dunno, dangerous?” He asked Quentin softly.

Okay. Peter was too smart for his own good, too.

“I mean—” He shifted a bit in his chair, slightly uncomfortable, because this was growing dangerously close to the truth about what Quentin really did for a living. “_Yes._ But I never killed anyone.”

Another lie. They just kind of kept piling on, but Quentin was supposed to be used to this.

He was starting to feel really guilty about doing it to Peter, too.

Peter eyed him for a moment, but he nodded. “Did you ever get hurt?”

Quentin recalled plenty of times in which he had come home with sprained joints or fractured bones. He broke his left arm once, too, and had too many presumable concussions to count on one hand.

“No. I was always very careful.” He lied.

Peter was seemingly pushing around his food, but he nodded. “Right.” He said, a little unconvinced, but it seemed as if he thought the best of Quentin and figured he wouldn’t lie to him.

The rest of dinner remained silent between the two, and Quentin busied himself on helping May clean up the table afterwards while Happy helped Rita to the living room.

* * *

The table was all cleaned up, and Quentin was assisting May in the kitchen with the dishes now. May had already told Quentin plenty of times that he didn’t need to help out, but Peter had overheard Beck reassuring her that it was no problem at all.

He lost track of their conversation when he had entered the living room, and Rita and Happy were on the couch. Inhaling a little, he plopped himself down next to Happy, fumbling with his fingers as he tried to form the few questions that were within his head.

“So, uhm…” Peter glanced to Happy, voice low while Rita was focused on the television. “You and May…?”

Happy eyed him, pondering if this was a conversation they should be having right now. “May and I…” He continued, leaving it hanging as Peter had.

Peter cleared his throat. “Nevermind.” He murmured, and the both of them were a bit relieved at that. “Hey, I… I didn’t know you knew Beck.”

Happy nodded, leaning back against the couch. “Yeah. He worked with us for a while before he was let off the team.” He explained.

Peter blinked. “’Let off’?” He tilted his head. “Quentin told me he still works there.” There, as in an undercover cop.

In Happy’s mind, of course, that was Stark Enterprises. “Mm… Nope. He was let go about… Three and a half, maybe four years ago.” He nodded.

“Oh.” Peter said, still misunderstanding. “Do you know why?”

Happy shook his head, though he seemed uncertain about the answer he gave. “Not really. Not that I can really say, either.”

“Peter, hon! Come in here quick!” May called from the kitchen, and Peter hopped up from the couch, going to see what she needed.

* * *

May, of course, had to run out and grab the cake she had ordered for dessert. She claimed that she had wanted it fresh, and ordered it last minute due to time constraints about making it herself.

That meant Quentin and Peter were stuck on dishwasher duty.

Quentin rinsed the plates while Peter racked them, and unfortunately, there were a hell of a lot of plates that needed to be put in.

Peter was quiet, and Beck could tell something was running through his head. He wasn’t sure if he craved the awkward silence more, or if he wished Peter would just say something, anything besides what was on his mind.

“Happy said you were fired.” Peter said, outright, straight forward.

So, that was what was on his mind.

“’Fired’?” Quentin asked curiously, hoping for some form of context. He had no idea what Happy had told him, or what Peter had questioned Happy about.

Peter nodded. “Yeah. When you worked with him.” He explained, but truthfully, it didn’t help Quentin in the slightest to figure out what Peter was talking about. He had to beat around the bush now, because he hadn’t come forward with a _Why didn’t you tell me you worked with Mr. Stark before?_ or anything like that.

He wondered just how much Pete knew.

“Well…” Quentin rinsed off one of the dinner plates, sponging off the gravy. “Yeah. I was.” He said, and that part was true – partially. He was fired, but probably not in the way Peter assumed.

“Why?” Peter asked. “I mean, I thought you said you still worked as an undercover cop?”

Quentin relaxed a little. So, he didn’t know.

“I do.” He nodded. “But… For different people now.” He explained, avoiding the ‘why’. “Pete, it’s nothing to worry about, okay? I’m all right.” He reassured him.

Peter, however, was still gnawing at his brain. His expression was one of curiosity and he still hadn’t put the dish into the dishwasher that Quentin had just handed him.

Finally, Peter nodded. “Okay.” He said, sliding the dish onto the bottom rack. “I don’t think it’ll fit anymore.” He said truthfully. “We’ll have to put another load in after.”

Quentin nodded, and he dried off his hands before handing a paper towel to Peter as well.

Peter looked as if he wanted to say something, but his phone rang in the pocket of his jeans, and he tossed the paper towel into the garbage before digging out his phone. Bringing it up to his ear, he leaned against the counter while Quentin decided to wash the rest of the dishes himself.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asked as he answered.

Quentin just barely glanced to him, feigning a very deep focus on the leftover gravy stains on the dishes in front of him in the sink.

“Yeah. It’s good. May just went out to get cake.” Peter explained. His lips formed into a small smile. “Of course, we’ll save you a piece.”

A slight ember of jealously fluttered in Quentin’s chest at Peter’s tone. Tony had always been a Grade-A asshole to him, and never really bothered to check in, either. He had been almost the same age as Peter at the time, too.

“Mhm. Happy’s here.” Peter explained. “No, we just had a couple of other people over. Not really a full house.” He said, and then was silent for a while.

Quentin turned off the sink, placing the dishes into the drying rack.

“Wait— _Seriously_? Mr. Stark, that’s—” Peter paused, as if Tony had just cut him off. And then, “I know! Mr. Stark, that’s amazing. I can check with May but I’m pretty sure I can go if it’s during break.”

Beck tried to listen, but it wasn’t loud enough for him to hear what Tony was saying.

“Okay. Yes. Yeah, absolutely, I’ll check in with her. Thank you so much—I will! Bye.” Peter said, and smiled widely as he hung up the phone. Then, he turned to Quentin. “Guess what?”

Quentin glanced to Peter, smiling a little, seeming interested. He had no idea how Peter was still so fucking loyal to Tony. “What’s up?”

“Tony—He said he’s decided to move his Stark Expo to Europe.” Peter said with a wide grin. “I mean— _Europe!_ He wants to hold the expo inside of the square in Venice.”

Quentin blinked.

Venice?

Well—All of their plans pretty much just went out the window. He thought Happy would have been a set back, but this? This was worse.

Happy had to have said something to Stark… Then again, would he? He and his mother were on great terms, but perhaps Happy was more loyal to Tony than Peter was.

“Venice?” Quentin grinned, definitely in a very false manner, but Peter was too excited to notice. “Peter, that’s amazing.”

“I know! He said he could fly my friends and I in, too!” He said, and then suddenly, got an idea. “Maybe you can come with us— In the jet, I mean.”

Beck paled a bit. “A jet? No—No, that’s okay, Pete. You go with your friends. It’ll be a bit of a stretch, but I’ll pull some strings with work and see if I can go.” He explained.

Of course, they had plan A through Z, but not one where Tony decided to pack up the expo and bring it halfway across the world.

“Are you sure?” Peter said, deflating a bit.

“Yeah. Really, it’s fine. I might have to make a few other stops if we’ll be going to Europe, anyway.” Quentin lied, turning around to lean the small of his back against the counter, next to Peter.

Peter kept a smile nonetheless, obviously jittery at the thought of leaving the United States. “I’m definitely going to bring MJ. Ned, too, if he wants. I really hope he can come.” He sighed happily.

Quentin brought a hand through his hair, trying to think it all through. Peter was way too devoted to _Mr. Stark_ in order to turn him against him. He could keep trying, but the Expo was growing close – in less than a month – and he had to think of something new if he wanted Peter on his side. “Hey—” He said, pushing himself up and off the counter. “Pete, could I talk to you?”

Peter seemed interested, suddenly, and then nodded. He straightened up a bit as well, but Quentin was still much taller than him nonetheless. “Yeah—Uhm…” He glanced briefly to the entrance of the living room, where Happy and Rita were talking now. “Why don’t we go to my room?”

Beck nodded, and gave Peter a small, grateful smile. He had an idea, and he thought it just might work.

Peter led Quentin down their hall and into his bedroom, which was currently a mess. His bed was unmade and clothes were nearly everywhere, but it really was the only place they could talk in privacy. Peter seemed to flush at the realization he should have cleaned, glancing to Quentin sheepishly. “Sorry about, uh…” He waved his hand, gesturing towards everything on the floor.

“No worries.” He reassured with a smile, and slowly moved to take a seat upon Peter’s bed. Peter joined him hesitantly, rubbing his hands together as he faced Beck curiously.

“What did you wanna talk about?” Peter asked, looking to him with a wondering expression.

“Peter, I’ve been lying to you.” Quentin said, out and right away.

Peter blinked. “What?”

“I’ve been lying to you.” Quentin reiterated. “About a couple of things.”

Frowning a bit, the teenager glanced down to his lap, and then back at him again. “What, uhm… What’ve you lied to me about?”

A gentle expression crossed Beck’s features. “For starters… I’ve been lying to you about work.” He said, just praying, hoping, that this might work. “I did work with Happy Hogan, that was true. But I worked with him at Stark Industries. Not undercover.”

Peter was silent for a moment, trying to process it all. “You—You worked for Mr. Stark?”

Quentin nodded. “I was fired because…” He cleared his throat. “Well, because, in Tony’s eyes, I… I was slowing them down.” He lied. Despite lying usually coming easy to him, this was a struggle for him to get through. “Tony, he… He didn’t think I was good enough.” He said, voice growing small.

[ Peter was disbelieving, at first. How could anyone not think Quentin was good enough? ]

“And maybe I wasn’t.” Beck shrugged, turning his eye away from Peter to stare down at his hands. “I made a lot of mistakes, Peter.” He sighed. “And I haven’t always been fair to Tony.”

God, he felt disgusted just saying this. He wished he could tell Peter all that Stark had done to him, but… He couldn’t. For the plan to work, he had to do this, and he was going to do it himself. Fuck the team. This was his reasoning – Not theirs.

“So… I wanted to go to the Stark Expo, but… But I didn’t know how. I knew Tony wouldn’t ever want to see my face again.” He mumbled, reaching up to wipe tiredly at his eyes. “And I know I said all of those things, some bad, about Stark, but… I think that was just me being angry with myself.” He murmured. “I was really just going to ask you that day, when I saw you in the coffee shop. But… I like you, Peter.” He said, turning to the teenager with a fond smile. That part, he wasn’t exactly lying, or at least he didn’t realize. “You’re a really good kid. And you’re a great person, and I’m glad that we met. That we’re close enough to be having Thanksgiving dinner.” He laughed.

Peter did, too, and the rounds of his cheeks were scarlet.

“So, I… I want to go to the Stark Expo because… I want to apologize to Tony. I want to tell him how sorry I am, and… And hopefully, he’ll want to give me another chance.” Quentin lied, finding Peter’s eyes.

Peter bit his lip, looking right back up at him. “Beck… I’m not angry.”

Quentin would have feigned shock, but he was genuinely surprised. Was the kid that gullible? “You’re not?”

“No.” Peter shook his head. “No, you… You had your reasons. And… I mean, I’m not that happy that you lied, but… Your reasoning was totally justifiable.” He nodded, offering Beck a small smile. “… And I like you, too.” He said, growing shy at that.

Beck chuckled, though his expression grew a tad bit more serious. “You can’t… You can’t tell anyone, though, okay, kiddo? Even Tony. If he hears I’m going to the Stark Expo, he’ll have my name banned off the list and throw me out as soon as security hears it.”

Peter nodded quickly, reassuring Beck. “I won’t—I won’t.”

“Promise me.” Beck said softly, taking one of Peter’s hands into both of his own, squeezing it gently. “Promise me you won’t tell him. I want to make things right.”

Peter smiled a little bit, and then he nodded. Releasing Quentin’s hands, he reached forward and threw his arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly.

Quentin slowly moved his arms back around Peter, and shut his eyes, feeling a bit satisfied.

It worked. With a little twist to the truth, Quentin knew he could get what he wanted.

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Peter mumbled against Quentin’s shoulder, scooting a little closer to the man now. He was almost in his lap, and Beck tried not to think about that right now.

Despite the fact, Beck guided Peter closer and inhaled, taking in the scent of May’s cooking , and underneath all of that, cheap laundry detergent. He didn’t like the idea of never seeing Peter again after all of this was over. He wouldn’t be able to talk to Peter, let alone look him in the eye, but his mission had to be completed. It had to be done, whether it be for himself or for the sake of all of the co-workers Tony Stark wronged.

Smoothing a hand up Peter’s back, his fingertips found his way to Peter’s hair, swallowing a little bit.

His mom was right. He had no idea what he was getting himself into, at all.

“And I meant it.” Beck mumbled, nosing Peter’s temple slightly, heart rate increasing just a bit. “I like you, Peter.” He said, voice falling to a whisper.

Peter slowly pulled back, and they were just inches apart. He found Beck’s eyes timidly, lips twitching to a smile. “You do?”

Beck beamed back at him, reaching up to slowly graze a strand of Peter’s hair away from his forehead. “Of course I do… Who wouldn’t?”

Peter smiled, and his eyes found Quentin’s lips.

The front door closed with an unintentional slam, and May said something – He wasn’t sure what, for it was a bit garbled with his room door being closer, but Peter was swift to pull away from him and stand up. “We should get back.” Peter said lightly.

Quentin nodded, feeling a bit cold at the loss of touch. Nonetheless, he stood, forcing his feet to carry him back to the other room.

The satisfaction gradually morphed into guilt.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beck has to take a little bit of a different direction.

A glance at his phone – one thirty a.m. – and then he shoved it back into his pocket.

His feet are carrying him throughout the hall, a dark and empty hall, back to his apartment door. He craved his bed. He craved a hot shower, and for the sweat ( or was that blood? ) to be washed from his skin. Maybe something to eat.

His mother was long gone to bed when he got inside, curled up under the covers in her room. Quentin was as silent as he could be when closing the door (fuck squeaky hinges), and settled for a beer instead of a decent meal and the couch cushions as opposed to his bedroom.

Leaning forward, he propped his elbows onto his knees and exhaled soundly against his palms, recalling what had just occurred within the last six hours. At least, he tried to recall.

_”You know, it’s not always wise when you decide to ignore your responsibilities. You saw what we did to your mother the last time you did that.”_

_Quentin leaned back in his chair, momentarily avoiding the eyes of his boss. He hated being lectured like he was a fucking kid, especially by his boss. “Well—It doesn’t matter now. Change of plans for the Stark Expo.”_

_His boss smiled, or perhaps smirked. Beck didn’t look, but he could hear it in his voice. “Europe, is it, now? Stark’s smart. Unfortunately, your intellect didn’t prove as much. He must know you’re right on his tail.”_

_There was silence, and then his boss spoke again. “Especially with how close you’ve been getting to your little friend.”_

_Quentin finally looked up at him._

_His boss chuckled, deep with malice. “You didn’t think I’d notice? Truly, Beck, your brain has gone down the gutter.”_

_“The kid means nothing to me.” Quentin growled, though a certain protectiveness had taken over._

_“Good,” His boss said, despite reading right through his lies. “Then I suggest you take a look at your next mission report.” He stated, tossing a folder in front of Quentin, who was still seated at his desk. “It’s an execute order.”_

_Quentin blinked. He lurched forward and scrambled for the folder, though opened it slowly, almost fearfully. “…What?”_

_“Is that a problem, Mr. Beck?” He rose a brow. “Peter Parker is a distraction. I need you to get rid of the kid. And if you refuse – Well, we’ll just have to see about you this time. Or, perhaps your mother. Permanently.” _

He drank the rest of his beer, downing it as a bit spilled down the stubble of his chin, though felt disappointed at the lack of the buzz. Maybe he needed something heavier, but it was way too late to be drinking on an empty stomach, and he had to get up early tomorrow because he promised he’d have breakfast with Peter.

His heart clenched in his chest, and he shut his eyes again, resting his knuckles against his mouth, elbows still propped on his knees.

Maybe he didn’t have to kill him. There had to be some other way out.

Deciding on his case, Quentin slumped back against the couch cushions, toed off his shoes and passed out against the pillows.

* * *

“Well—Don’t feel down about it, Pete.” MJ said, nudging his shoulder in a friendly manner, before turning back to work on the mocha someone had just ordered. “He’s the asshole if he hasn’t spoken to you in weeks, you know. None of it is your fault.”

Peter couldn’t really focus, not today. Quite frankly, he hasn’t been able to at all since Quentin had broken off all ties with him. It’s been a little over half a month since Beck did so, not returning his calls or texting him back in any way. He hadn’t even contacted him, nor come to the café to stop in and say hello. At first, Pete was worried. Maybe something had happened to him, or his mother. Maybe something really was wrong, and he was being a big baby about it and couldn’t let Quentin have the space he deserved.

Maybe that was it. Convincing himself of so was easier in such respects, anyway.

“I don’t know.” Peter said simply, because truthfully, he didn’t. He had no clue what to think. His brain went haywire every time he tried to figure out a solution.

He’s not even sure he deserved Quentin’s friendship, anyway.

“At least we’ll be in Europe, in, what… Three days?” MJ said, giving Peter a light grin. “And it’s almost Christmas time. Christmas, in Italy. Do you know how cool that’s going to be?”

Peter sighed, for the excitement wasn’t coming as naturally as it had to Michelle. Granted, he did get to spend time with her – But he had to be honest, he was more excited about spending Christmas with Quentin. Or even seeing him over the holiday.

Hell, they could have been in Venice together.

Peter stopped himself for a moment because, well, now that he was starting to think about it… it seemed a little silly. MJ’s been his friend since before high school. She’s been there for him no matter what, more than Ned, and has helped him with and through everything he’s ever needed.

It was silly to get caught up over a man who would never care about him.

Who would want a scrawny eighteen-year-old, anyway?

“Hey,” MJ reached out, and placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder, which brought him straight back to the reality of everything. “Listen, you’re not gonna sulk this whole trip, you get me? We’re going to have a kick-ass time together, and you’re going to accept all of the gifts I get you, and you’re going to have way too much dessert whether you like it or not.”

Peter smiled, and even stifled a little bit of laughter. Then, his smile grew, and he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re going to have a good time.”

MJ nodded. “Is Ned coming?”

He shook his head. “Staying with family. I understand.” He explained. “Truthfully, I’m just really excited to see Mr. Stark again.”

She smiled a bit herself. “Dude, you totally want him to just throw you adoption papers.”

Peter flushed, scoffing. “What—What the hell are you talking about?”

“He’s basically your father.” She commented.

“Hey—Back to work, you two.” Flash said irritatingly. MJ rolled her eyes and flipped him off, though she gave Peter a fond expression as she delivered the mocha to the person waiting for their drink.

* * *

“Come on, Pete, you’re going to be late!”

Pajamas, check. Toothbrush, check. Toothpaste, a nice suit, a jacket, plenty of socks, check. Umbrella—

Peter paused at that and glanced to the umbrella hanging from its braided loop on his closet door handle. He wouldn’t need an umbrella. Hell, it was winter, just days before Christmas, and there was no way it was going to rain. He had no idea what the climate what actually like in Italy, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t going to rain.

Exhaling in self-defeat, he grabbed the umbrella, anyway… Because, well, what if it did rain? He’d be screwed, and May would sure enough give him a hard time about all of it.

“Peter!” May’s voice rang again, and he zipped up his backpack after he shoved his computer inside.

“Coming!” Peter called back, slinging it over his shoulder and rushing out to meet her.

As it never failed, Tony Stark ordered a jet to pick he, Peter, MJ and May up in order to fly them over to Europe. It was a decently long flight, seven to eight hours, but he had the two people that meant most to him in the world next to him the entire time. He had only wished there was one more person with them – and it wasn’t Ned, surprisingly.

Once they settled, May knocked out like a light for a couple of hours while MJ and Peter watched Pulp Fiction. Tony had about every movie there was to have on the private jet’s television, though Peter shouldn’t have been shocked at such. He was pretty sure he dozed off for a while, too, at least until the waitress came around with plates of food for them.

He wasn’t all that hungry, but he accepted the food kindly and chatted with them while he ate.

“So, Beck’s not coming?” May asked Peter, almost suddenly. She hadn’t exactly been told all that had happened. Peter knew to her, it wouldn’t be a big deal, anyway. MJ glanced at him at her words.

“Uh… You know, I don’t know.” Peter shrugged. “I haven’t asked him.”

“Well, I hope we see him. What a sweetheart Quentin is.” May smiled.

Clearing his throat, he sunk down in the private jet’s seat a bit, nodding a little. He and MJ’s seats were facing May’s, so it was hard to hide himself completely.

MJ eventually removed her gaze, focusing on the all-too-good airplane food in front of her.

* * *

When they finally arrived, Peter was shot. He hadn’t slept very well on the plane, and felt the need to have a very comfortable bed to sleep in for the next eight or twelve hours. He tried his best to admire the views around him as they exited the airport – Which wasn’t hard, because the view was something Peter never thought he’d see before. No, airport views weren’t always the greatest, but the landscape was entirely different from landing at JFK in New York and being greeted with a bunch of ugly buildings.

This… This was different.

The land was flat, at least where their airport was, and overlooking the glass windows of the airport was a gorgeous body of water, waves small as they shifted upon the surface, everything almost calm. It was awfully dark, but the sight of the mainland’s village lights from afar made up for it with the appearance of the stars as well. The probable usually green landscape was dark vegetation that blended with the sky.

The drive there was a bit chaotic – There wasn’t much traffic, but Peter noticed that a lot of the Italian cab drivers enjoyed driving at their own pace… And sometimes, their own pace was a little bit more than a pace.

Somehow, it worked. Peter knew he could never be able to drive well enough here, or be as skilled enough as they were. Hell, he didn’t even drive himself yet. He always relied on public transportation.

They finally arrived at the hotel, which was gorgeous. May promised they’d get a look around tomorrow, but from what Peter saw, the hotel had a beautiful yard with plenty of lawn chairs, and a canopy of vines, string lights, and if it had been summertime, plenty of leaves.

Their room was like an apartment. A small kitchen, a bathroom a living room with a pull-out couch and two bedrooms. MJ tried to convince them that she’d take the couch, but Peter insisted they share a bed because the mattresses were pretty big. May gave him a couple of concerning looks (oh, if only May knew), but in the end, MJ shrugged it off and agreed as her nonchalant self.

After taking well-needed showers and changing into comfortable clothing, they finally got into bed around ten thirty, MJ scrolling through her phone as Peter scrambled under the covers. He yawned, which caused MJ to send him a glance, smiling a bit. “Tired, buddy?”

Peter glanced back over at her, offering an exhausted smile. “Yeah, I am, _pal_.” He said, nudging her shoulder, turning on his side to face her. “Aren’t you?”

“A little.” Michelle admitted, scrubbing at her eye as she put her phone aside. “I used to take a lot of plane rides as a kid to see my dad, so…”

Peter nodded, wondering if he should ask. “Where does your dad live?”

“Uhm… Well, he actually lives in the Midwest.” She explained. “So, not as terribly long as the flight we had today, but… I did it a lot, so.” She nodded.

“Can I ask…?” Peter questioned.

“Yeah, they’re divorced.” MJ nodded. “But, I mean—Whose parents aren’t, you know?” She shrugged.

“Yeah.” Peter nodded, bringing a hand through his hair. He wished he could have seen his parents again. The memories of them were so vivid, and yet so distant.

Interrupting their conversation and his train of thought, his phone started buzzing in his backpack.

MJ narrowed her eyes. “Is that yours?”

Peter blinked, glancing sleepily to his phone. “Uh—Yeah, I think so.” He mumbled. “I guess May got the International Phone Plan working already.” Sleepily sliding off the bed, he sauntered to his bag and crouched, opening up the zipper and pulling out his phone.

“Who is it?” MJ asked, sitting up a bit on the bed.

Peter frowned down at the screen, pausing, almost considering if he should answer. “Uh—Nothing… I mean, no one— I’ll be right back.” Before she could protest, he rushed out of the bedroom and decided on the hotel’s hallway for now, grabbing his key, stepping out and closing the door behind him. Slowly, he pressed ‘answer’, and brought it up to his ear.

“… Quentin?”

* * *

Quentin breathed out at the sound of Peter’s voice.

He knew it would be hard, hearing Pete’s voice again after so many weeks, after knowing he’d probably hurt Peter. But he hadn’t realized it would be _this_ hard. He swallowed thickly, trying to form his words.

“Hello?” Peter sounded from the other side of the line again.

Taking another long pause, Quentin started to pace in his own hotel room, just a half mile away from Peter’s. This was all orchestrated so… perfectly. Almost too perfectly, in his opinion. He had practically begged his boss for more time with the kid, with Peter, and with the plan as a whole. He had managed to convince the dumbass that was his boss that it would make more sense for Peter to be… well, _taken care of_, in Italy; that the plan could be developed where it made it look an accident rather than deliberate.

It would all work out with the plan, whether Quentin wished for it to or not.

The cellphone trembled within his fingertips, and he almost considered hanging up. He wasn’t _really_ supposed to be calling Peter, but what his boss didn’t know, didn’t hurt him.

He was in on this all by himself. Riva was his side kick, at least digitally and through the world’s tiniest intercom, but Quentin had to take care of the rest. He was going to be the one responsible for the take-down of Tony Stark. It’s not like anyone else on the team was ready to hop up and fly to Europe for Christmas last minute.

The sound of Peter’s slight shift in breath had awoken Quentin from his thoughts. He had been so star-struck by Peter’s voice that he had to remind himself that he was on the phone with him.

“Are you there?” Peter asked, almost desperate to hear some noise from Quentin’s line.

Another pause, and then, “Yeah. It’s me.”

Peter’s line was silent this time. Quentin knew it was seconds, but it felt like hours. “Quentin…”

“I know.” Beck mumbled. “Pete, I know what you’re thinking.”

“Why?” Peter asked, but somehow, there was no malice in his tone. Just curiosity. “What happened, Beck?”

“I can explain—”

“I was so worried.” Peter admitted, voice small. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks, I… I was so worried.”

Beck’s heart tightened awfully fast. Peter wasn’t mad at him. _Peter wasn’t mad at him._ God, why wasn’t he fucking mad? Quentin hoped to death he would be. It would be so much easier. So, so much easier. “I know. I know, Pete, I’m sorry.” He said, almost sadly. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Peter paused, but Quentin could still hear him breathe. Then, he spoke up again. “Are you still coming to the Stark Expo?” He asked, tone remaining timid.

“Yeah.” Quentin mumbled. “Yeah, I’m in Italy right now.” He explained, trying to seem oblivious to the fact that Peter was, too, despite having his location from his phone and the umbrella, anyway.

Sometimes, he really wished he hadn’t placed a mic on that stupid thing.

“You are?” Peter asked, suddenly sounding hopefully. “You-… Where?”

Quentin bit at the inside of his cheek. “Venice.” He said softly.

Silence again, and then… “…Could I… I mean—” Peter paused, huffing almost frustratedly on the other end, but more towards himself. “I’m here, too.” He said, almost suggesting something. “We just arrived.”

“Who’s with you?” Quentin asked.

“MJ and Aunt May.” Peter explained. “Beck, could I— Do you think I could see you?” He seemed almost shaken. “Please?”

“…Right now?”

“Yeah.”

Quentin brought the phone away from his face and exhaled. He pinched the bridge of his nose and wiped at his eyes, before guiding the cellphone back up to his ear. Despite knowing Peter’s location, he breathed out an easy, “Where should I meet you, kiddo?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter finally gets to Beck and delves deeper into Beck's “true” intentions. Maybe just a little too deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I know this update is pretty soon after the last chapter, but I've had a burst of muse and uh, I love the boys.
> 
> So, enjoy. <3

Cold. The night was cold, and the breeze was a bit heavy, and the weather nipped at the tips of Quentin’s ears and chilled him to the very bone. Perhaps it wasn’t just the weather that was giving him the chills, however. His feet were just as numb as his face, though they continued to carry him along the empty streets, along the square, which, to be honest, at this time at night, was lively. People were chatting and eating dinner along the barriers of the canal, or walking along the streets that remained in Venice to enjoy their night. Despite the slight chill, everyone still managed to have a lovely night.

Quentin, on the other hand, was fidgeting all over. Peter had given him the address, and although he didn’t particularly need it due to the tracker on his phone, he still accepted it. Google Maps was a little iffy with his international plan, but he couldn’t mistake the head of brown hair that was nearly buried in an overcoat and scarf in the distance. Quentin didn’t think it was _that_ cold, but Peter was a scrawny kid. He was glad he was covering himself up to beat the climate.

As soon as Peter caught sight of Quentin, his feet could carry him no more. Peter was standing in front of a small, vintage little hotel, his arms tucked against his sides, seemingly just as frozen as Quentin was. The stone pavement and water in itself was illuminated by jeweled lanterns lining the streets, reflecting off of Peter’s skin to reveal the paleness of his features.

Peter looked unsure. To be quite frank, so was Quentin.

Quentin slid his hands into his pockets, but only took another couple of steps forward. “…Hey.”

Peter shifted a little, bringing his hands together to absentmindedly massage his knuckles. Beck noticed that it was something Peter did when he was anxious, or just when he was thinking about a lot. He was quiet, staring over at the man as if he was uncertain about how he should react, or what he should say. However, all he said was, “You made it.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’m here.”

Peter worried at his lip. “When, uhm…” He glanced down to his feet. “When did you get here?” He asked. “To Italy, I mean.”

“Last week.” Quentin stated. “You?”

“Uh… Two hours ago.” Peter mumbled.

Beck blinked. “Two hours ago? Shit, kid, aren’t you tired?”

He was silent for a moment, and then, “Yeah, but I wanted to see you.”

Quentin looked to Peter hesitantly. He looked like he was about to pass out on the spot.

Peter opened his mouth again, but a couple passed by who were drunkenly yet delightfully chattering in Italian. He barely caught a word. His brain seemed fried. When they were no longer in earshot, he glanced up to Quentin. “Maybe we should go somewhere a little more private and talk.”

Beck nodded, thinking it over. “Do you wanna go back to my place?”

* * *

Peter was pretty much slumped over by the time he stepped inside Quentin’s hotel room. He had reluctantly agreed, only because he wanted to see Quentin, and wished for an explanation for blowing him off all of these weeks. He was silent the entire walk back, but thankfully, it wasn’t a long walk. Quentin unlocked the room for them, and Peter decided on taking a seat on the desk chair as soon as he entered. He needed somewhere to sit, just for a moment, because maybe it was a bad idea to leave MJ and Aunt May this late. MJ was still awake – Hell, she had seen him walk out just like that, and had to be perceptive enough to realize what all of it was about. He only prayed she kept to herself and didn’t tell May, because May would lose her shit and never let him out of her sight again.

Quentin shut the door behind him, and Peter noticed he had seemed just as anxious as Peter was – There was some sort of mask over the uneasiness, however, something that the both of them were trying to desperately keep up with.

Both of them were, of course, failing.

Beck lowered himself to take a seat at the edge of his bed, toeing off his shoes and placing his hands in his lap. There was a very evident inhale within the awkward shifting and semi-silence of the room, at least until Peter spoke up.

“Where’ve you been, Beck?” Peter asked, voice small.

“Peter…”

“You haven’t spoken to me in weeks.” He finally stated, voice a bit firmer this time, despite the shakiness.

“I know.” Beck sighed, guiding fingers through his own hair. “I know, Pete.”

Peter was turned in the chair so that he faced Quentin. “Why?” He asked. “Did… Did someone hurt you? Is your mom okay?”

“Everything’s fine. I promise.” Quentin replied, and he seemed truthful. Peter knew he could trust Quentin of all people, or at least he liked to hope he could.

“Then… What happened?” Peter asked, glancing to him with a sense of hope that Quentin would spill.

Quentin avoided his eyes at first, and then shifted on the bed to sit back a little more. He pat the seat next to him, a gesture for Peter to join him.

Slowly, Peter stood and sat himself down next to Quentin, still in his coat and scarf.

“It’s warm in here.” Quentin said gently, moving to place a hand on the small of Peter’s back. “Do you want to take that off?”

If Peter was warm, it wasn’t because of the heat rising from the radiator. His cheeks blossomed with color, and he stammered, unable to get a word out for the moment.

“I won’t force you, if you’re cold.” Beck reassured.

“No, it’s—” Peter shook his head, trying to wave him off as he mumbled a _fine_, shrugging off his coat so that it dropped behind him on the bed. He removed his scarf next and set it aside, bringing his arms to himself and looking away. He couldn’t see Quentin’s face, but he was pretty sure there was some sort of expression of pity following his eyes. “Warmer than New York, anyway…” He murmured.

“Pete… Just let me explain…”

“Explain what?” Peter turned to him, deciding on finding his eyes. Big, blue and full of genuine concern. All his anger almost washed away at the sight. “That you’ve been ghosting me for weeks without explanation?” He huffed. “…What did I do, Quentin?”

“You didn’t do anything.” Beck reassured, but when he placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder, Peter flinched away. He placed his hands back into his lap, though kept his stare trained on the kid. “Peter, listen to me—You didn’t do _anything_.”

“Yeah, well… Clearly I have, if you’ve been refusing to speak to me.” Peter grumbled.

Quentin wilted a little. Clearly, he saw he had hurt Peter.

_Good_, Peter thought to himself.

“Peter, I didn’t speak to you because I like you.”

Peter paused, slowly turning to Quentin. He opened his mouth to say something, but instead screwed his lips shut to stare over at him in curiosity and try to read through his bullshit answer. Mostly, however, he was just confused. “I—What?”

“I meant it when I told you I like you. You know that.” Beck stated, turning a bit more towards him on the bed. “I really, really like you Peter.”

Peter swallowed, trying to find a way to interpret Beck’s words.

“But… If we keep talking, you’re going to get hurt.” Quentin mumbled.

“Beck… What are you talking about?” Peter asked gently.

“Everyone I love is always hurt or damaged because of me.” He explained, seemingly conflicted. “I don’t want to hurt you, Peter.” He said, and now there seemed to be genuine worry (almost fear) in his eyes.

Peter frowned at this, and now he brought his hand up to Quentin’s hand, squeezing gently. “You’re not going to hurt me.” He said, feeling a bit worried himself at the man’s sudden vulnerability. “Why are you saying this, Quentin?”

Beck slowly wrapped his hand with Peter’s, oh-so-slowly, guiding his fingers through Peter’s and grasping his hand as if he’d never be able to hold it once more. “I wish I could tell you everything.” He said, soft, a near-whisper.

Peter sat there for a moment, bringing his eyes over Quentin’s appearance. His beard had grown out a bit more, and it remained untrimmed. The darkness underneath his eyes seemingly increased to form exhausted circles, and his expression as a whole seemed strained. His hair was a bit of a mess, but a beautiful one at that, and he couldn’t help the admiring gaze that followed as he stared at Beck. It hurt to see Beck in pain, because he had no idea how to help him. He wasn’t even sure what was going on. “You can,” Peter whispered back, shifting a little closer. “Beck, you can tell me anything.”

He looked up to him, squeezing Peter’s hand once more. “I just want you to be safe.” He whispered. “And safe is away from me.” At that moment, Quentin moved to stand, releasing Peter’s hand. “You should g—”

Before Quentin could finish his sentence, Peter stood and practically tackled Quentin in a tight embrace. His arms snaked around the man’s firm middle, and he burrowed his face into the material of his sweater, eyelids squeezing shut. “I don’t want to.” Peter said weakly, all too easily giving in. “I don’t want to go.” He murmured shortly after, hiding his face, and not long after feeling a hand cradling the back of his head. A strong set of arms then wrapped around his body, bringing him close, allowing him to feel truly at peace in the best way he could.

He didn’t want to go. [ And at that moment, Quentin didn’t want him to, either. ]

“No matter what happens, Peter…” Quentin murmured into his hair, “I want you to trust me.”

Peter pulled back, staring up at him with wide eyes. “I trust you.” He said easily. “Beck, I trust you with my life.”

There was a hint of sadness that overcame Beck, but it was swiftly masked with sympathy, fast enough that Peter didn’t notice. “I’ll keep you safe, Peter.” He said gently. “Always. But you… Pete, you need to stay with the right people.” He coaxed, smoothing his hands up and down Peter’s arms. “You could get hurt otherwise.”

“I watch out for myself.” Peter said, keeping his eyes on Quentin’s. He did, however, feel warmth grow inside at the mention of Beck protecting him. “I always do.”

“I know.” Quentin whispered, bringing his hands up to take Peter’s face into his hands, stroking his thumbs over his cheekbones. “But there are people out there who want to hurt you. And I need you to understand who.”

Peter seemed puzzled, bringing his hands up to rest over Quentin’s. “Who? What are you not telling me, Beck?”

“You trust me, don’t you?”

“I just said I did.” Peter replied, and despite the sass, his eyes were genuine.

“Then just… Just hear me out— You can’t listen to what everyone around you is saying.” Beck explained, taking both of Peter’s hands into his own, staring down at him. “But you can listen to me. Okay? You can always listen to me.”

“Of course.” Peter said gently. “Beck… You’re starting to worry me.”

“Don’t worry.” Quentin said softly in return. “It’ll all be okay. I told you, I’m here to protect you.” He said. “I just—I need you to do something for me, Pete.”

“…What is it?”

Quentin sighed. “Peter, there’s someone that’s trying to sabotage Stark and his Expo.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “What?”

“We don’t know who yet—But what we do know is that they’re going to strike the day of.”

Peter pulled away. “Then we have to tell Mr. Stark!”

“No—No, Pete, come on, don’t be ridiculous.” Quentin stepped forward as Peter stepped back. “If Stark hears this, he’ll throw away the whole Expo. And this—” Beck paused, internally cringing a little, “This B.A.R.F., it’ll help a lot of people. I can take care of it, but I need your help.”

Quieting a little, he stared at Quentin unsurely. “What?”

“Here—” Beck paused, and he turned away from Peter briefly to dig around, before presenting Peter with a small flash drive. “This—I designed this to protect Stark’s security system. If you get this to the computer, I can connect with his AI and inform it to call for police. This way, we catch the sabotage hands on.”

“Her.”

“Huh?”

“Uh—The AI, it’s a her, her name is EDITH.”

“Right—Well, EDITH, she can help me through this.” Quentin explained. “But I can’t get in without access, Pete. I need you to give it to me, and the flash drive, that’s the key. Hand EDITH over to me, and I’ll take care of the rest. Tony deserves a night without worry, don’t you think?”

Peter swallowed, and he was quiet for an agonizing five or six seconds. “…Okay. I… I think I can do it.”

“I know you can.” Quentin stepped forward, taking Peter’s hand to place the flash drive in his palm, closing his fingers over the item. “I know you can do this, Peter. I believe in you. You have no idea how much I believe in you.”

Peter felt like melting on the spot. Instead, he clutched the flash drive tightly and nodded. Beck trusted him with this, and he was not going to let him down. “Are they going to hurt Tony?”

“We don’t know, Peter.” Beck said softly. “All that matters is he’s kept safe.”

Peter nodded. He was right. That’s what mattered.

“Thank you.” Beck said, voice growing soft again, shoulders a little less tense. “I knew I could trust you.”

“Always.” Peter said, approaching his jacket to safely pocket it and zip it up. He turned back to Quentin, feeling a little heavy at everything that just occurred, and yet at the same time as if he had just spread wings – He and Quentin were going to save Mr. Stark. How cool was that? Mr. Stark was going to be really, really proud of him.

Quentin faced him as well, breathing out calmly. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah.” Peter nodded timidly. “Yeah, I just… I really missed you.”

“I know.” Beck smiled a little at that. “I missed you, too, kid.”

Peter rolled his eyes, though a smile of his own appeared. “Stop calling me kid. I’m eighteen years old, you know.”

“Mm, still a kid.” Quentin chuckled, plopping down onto the bed.

Peter’s smile faded, though it was more of a natural action than one of negativity. He seemed hesitant, before he mumbled a shy, “Can I stay tonight?”

Quentin, once more, appeared reluctant. Peter wasn’t sure why—it still freaked him out a little the way Beck kept saying someone wanted to hurt him—and he knew the question might’ve been a little silly. He should head back to May and MJ. Hell, his phone was dying and he really did crave a bed.

Luckily, Beck’s was right in front of him.

“Stay?” Beck questioned curiously.

“Uhm… Yeah, I just…” Peter cleared his throat. “Not _the night_, you know, just… Just for a little longer. I need a breather away from it all.”

His appearance grew tender. “What’s on your mind, Pete?” He asked, moving to sit back against the bed so he was resting against the headboard.

Once more he joined him upon the mattress, though he sat in front of Beck, crisscrossing his legs and keeping close to himself. Fingertips found one another to fumble. “Uncle Ben’s birthday was last week.”

Beck sat up a little, leaning forward a little to hopefully find Peter’s stare. Peter didn’t talk much about Uncle Ben, and opened up about him to a select few people as well. “How was it?”

“Not so good.” Peter admitted sadly. “I… I invited you, but—”

Quentin frowned a little, looking down at his eyes. “I’m sorry, Peter. I didn’t realize you had a get-together for him.”

“More of a memorial, really.” He said quietly. “We still had cake, and everything, but May was just… She was out of it that day.” He whispered. “I thought that your presence would make both of us feel better. May really likes you.” He murmured.

“I should have come.” He replied. “I just… I didn’t mean to be distant.”

“I know.” Peter said in return, shoulders once more slumped. He hated talking about Ben, and at the same time needed to. “Just—” His throat felt tight. He wished he could get it all out so that Quentin would understand. He wanted to peel open his chest and give his heart right to Beck. He wanted to open up about everything to him, and truthfully, it frightened him. “Ben was like a father to me. He was… He was so great.” Peter whispered.

“Losing him must have been painful.” Quentin said softly. “I can’t imagine what you went through, Peter.”

“I just wish he was around.” Peter murmured. “He always knew what to say.”

[ Beck thought all about it. Wasn’t that what Tony’s whole idea was about? Therapy for lost ones, reliving the past so that they could accept the future?

Quentin shook the thought, trying not to agree with the fact that Tony Stark may in fact have a heart. There was no way Tony would orient his project towards Peter. He had too much on his selfish mind for that. ]

“I wish I could say something to make you feel better.” Beck replied softly.

“You always make me feel better.” Peter said, looking up to him.

Beck smiled at that. Soft and tired and all dewy-eyed and Peter wanted to kiss him.

No—No, that was ridiculous. Beck was, like, way older than him.

That was just silly.

“Well—If that’s the case, maybe you should stay.” Beck said. “Just… A little longer.”

“Just a little longer.” Peter replied with a light smile.

Beck turned on the television and put on an old movie that was in Italian. Peter sat next to him at first, but as the night went on he gradually (and perhaps subconsciously) shifted closer so that he was undeniably thigh-to-thigh with Beck.

“Do you think there’s an English option?”

Beck chuckled at Peter’s words, sinking down a bit in the bed so that his head properly rested on the pillows. He reached over and shut the light, though the TV still lit up the room. “I’m sure there is, but we’re an hour in. Do you even understand what’s going on?”

“A little.” Peter admitted with a gentle laugh, slowly glancing down at Beck as he shifted. He looked so comfortable. And really, really cozy.

Beck looked back up at him, folding his arms behind his head. He was already in a t-shirt and comfortable pants, and _holy shit_ did his arms look wonderful right where they were.

“What’re you thinking about?”

“Huh?” Peter hummed.

“You’re thinking about something.” Quentin said, bringing one hand to Peter’s arm, soothing movements traveling up and down his arm.

“Ah, I don’t wanna talk right now.” Peter mumbled, though his expression was harmless.

Quentin’s eyes were fond. “No?”

“No.” Peter shook his head, and slowly sunk down to the pillows himself. “No, I don’t.”

“Well, we don’t have to.” Beck whispered, eyes remaining on Peter.

Peter looked to the TV, but not a minute after saying so, he went, “What’s your favorite color?”

Beck chuckled at that. “What?”

“Your favorite color. What is it?”

“Green.” Beck replied.

“I like green, too.” Peter said gently. “But I think my favorite is red.”

“Red’s nice.” Quentin agreed, glancing to Peter again.

Peter tucked the covers a little closer to himself, trying to retain as much warmth as possible.

“What’s wrong?” He asked. “Is it too cold in here?”

“It’s fine.” Peter reassured. “I think I’m always cold.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” Quentin said in return, and before Peter could clear the fog in his head, Beck was shifting closer until there was no longer a gap between them. An arm looped around Peter’s shoulder and he tugged him closer to his chest, enveloping him with his torso.

Peter inhaled nervously, though accepted the warmth. This—

This was really nice.

“Better?” Quentin asked, though his answer was received as Peter opened up completely and tidied himself right into Beck’s side.

“Better.” He whispered nonetheless. As he dozed off, he didn’t notice the pained expression of Beck’s features, falling into a dreamless rest.


End file.
